


Post Hoc

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, F/M, Fake dating for the sake of science, a favorite personal trope...And they were research collaborators, and fluffy, and fun, and oblivious academics making a type II error about falling in love, this is going to be super nerdy, with lots of science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: ABSTRACT:The current research seeks to marry the fields of quantum mechanics and social-cognitive psychology to present the first study of its kind to apply quantum probability to prosocial behavior. Helping behaviors of the elite one percent were tested using a novel paradigm that involved the low-impact, positively valanced behavior of gift giving for a wedding. It was hypothesized that the monetary amount of gifts provided would align with pre-determined factors of entanglement informed by the literature. The hypotheses were partially supported. The application of quantum theory to psychology is discussed as well as the unique and unexpected extraneous variables that should be included in future models.aka A scientific fake dating AU
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 53
Kudos: 32





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a tumblr post: https://1989nihil.tumblr.com/post/184419519695/awful-brew-xxfangirlanonymousxx ("“we invited an eccentric billionaire to our fake wedding in the hopes of getting a free present, but then they said they would come and now we have to have an actual fake wedding for them to attend.”) I saw that post, all I could think about was how to get Wanda and Vision realistically in that scenario. That's how this story came to be. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

This room, just like all other rooms, is predictable. What at first appears a hodgepodge of chattering people quickly dissolves into order. Clusters of academics dot the rows of pleather chairs, each department banning together to save seats and gossip about who just got turned down by that one reviewer again or why Mathematics is currently not speaking with Chemistry. This in-group favoritism does not stop here, however, these smaller groupings branching into larger ones, the right side of the room, closest to the doors, are the physical scientists, and then there is an almost straight line of empty seats going from the front of the room to the back, cross over it and you reach the social scientists, similarly grouped by department, similarly chatting about successes and failures in attaining funding and how the tepid fifteen year feud between criminology and political science just heated back up with a passive aggressive email. 

Vision technically is sitting on the correct side, about two rows from the other psychologists, but he does not mind the self-ostracism since sitting in the back of the room allows him to better observe the meeting unfold into a dance of egos and sharp wit. Or so he assumes, this is his first all staff meeting with the Marvel Institute, but it is far from his first academic gathering, and people have a tendency to follow patterns. Next to him, contrary to where she should be seated based on the flow of allegiances, yet in line with some of the literature on prosocial behaviors, Natasha slouches, one foot on the back of the chair in front of her, eyes rolling at the heated story coming from the front right corner of the room. 

“Is there a special significance to the meeting today?”

She leans her head back and smiles at him, not unlike the snarl of a panther that has just happened upon a gathering a defenseless baby monkeys. “Oh yeah, people are going to be so pissed.” 

Some people find negative events, well, negative, while some relish in the misery of others. Natasha is a proponent of the latter, the cutthroat nature of their job the perfect environment for her to thrive, something he has been envious of since they first met through mutual friends in graduate school. For what it’s worth, Vision has never been one for even casual schadenfreude. “Why is that?”

“Steve,” one of the main administrators of the think tank who also happens to be on a bowling team with Natasha, “said the board is threatening to cut funding if we all don’t start collaborating.”

Vision mentally scoffs, not really at the idea of collaborating since he intends to work closely with demography and sociology once he’s better established, but at the way the administration is speeding past all other avenues of empirically sound persuasion straight to the tactic most likely to cause defection. Perhaps he should send them a summary of the key findings in the area. “What are they going to do, throw our names into a hat and choose at random?” 

“Please don’t give them any ideas.”

An authoritative tapping of heels silences most of the gossiping. The head of HR steps up to a podium at the front of the room, her well-tailored pencil skirt, white silk shirt, and fuchsia cardigan creating an overall persona of power as she clears her throat into the microphone. “Can I have everyone’s attention please.” At this point, there is nothing to argue about, so no one counters, voices dropping off into a wary silence. “Today’s meeting will be brief on my end,” a sardonic _hooray_ comes from somewhere in the social sciences. She ignores it with aplomb. “If you recall, at our last companywide meeting, it was requested by our donors that _you all_ ,” patronizing tones are not an ideal way to get people on board, another thing he may need to add to the research brief for HR, “needed to embrace the trend of multidisciplinary research and give the Marvel Institute an even higher standing in the world today by providing even more cutting edge ideas.”

Natasha interrupts his attention with a whispered, “Ten bucks she’s about to tell us about another memo.”

He whispers back, “That seems a guarantee.” HR has already sent five memos this week ranging from appropriate attire for the workplace (someone had the audacity to wear flip flops on casual Friday) to cleaning out the fridges in the common space, to some useful ones like new grant sources and the changes to the workplace harassment policies. But it’s only Wednesday so there will be at least 5 more and Vision only takes Natasha’s bets if he has at least a 68% chance of winning. “I believe I will save my money.”

A shoulder nudges him, “You’re no fun.” Vision scoots an inch to the left.

“Immediately after this meeting, I will email you all a memo of what I am about to share.”

As usual, his calculations are correct, the ten dollars happily remaining in his pocket. “Being no fun for the win.”

“Shut up.”

The woman addressing the room straightens her spine, voice dropping into what she likely hopes is the best pitch for compliance. “The board of directors have mandated that every,” she pauses as grumbles begin to surface from all parts of the room, whispers of dissent and bemoaning of academic freedom, a privilege all of them in this room waived (for the most part) when they went into the private sector. She remains unfazed by the slow roiling of animosity, re-beginning and then ending the comment with her head still held high. “They have mandated that every employee must develop a multidisciplinary project with someone else working at the institute.” 

Out of the grumbling sprouts the first open dissent, the head of Computer Science, a lean, well-dressed man, stands to offer his thoughts. “Listen, why don’t you all tell the board to shove their mandates where they belong, because…”

Natasha’s whispering distracts Vision from the end of the comment, yet again, “That’s the other Victor.” 

“Oh.” On his first day he was informed that there was already a Victor working at the Marvel Institute, a man who is so vastly influential, revered, and hated that it might be in his best interest to dissociate from his birth name. Which wasn’t a huge issue. In graduate school he quickly took on the moniker Vision, not by choice, necessarily, but he did not protest the nickname. He hadn’t gone by it since getting his doctorate, determining Victor sounded more professional, yet now that he can watch the other Victor it makes complete sense why Vision was the one asked to use a different name. This Victor is impassioned, powerful, and utilizing the exact body language and tone to compel people to follow him. 

Victor finishes his speech with a hefty, controlled punch to the air, “You will never pry my intellectual freedom from me!” A few _amens!_ rise from both sides of the room. 

“Well,” the head of HR grips the edges of her cardigan, tugging it closer to her body as she bristles at his tone, “no one is taking your freedom. You are _free_ to choose the topic of your study and _free_ to choose the person with which you will be working.”

Victor rolls his eyes and his whole body follows, “So this,” he raises his hands to add air quotes to the next word, “ _freedom_ you speak of is conditional?” The woman nods slowly, eyes beginning to look a little cornered. “Fine, then tell the board I already collaborate with Chemistry, Robotics, Engineering, and sometimes even with Physics when I’m desperate.”

“Yes, well, that is wonderful to know, and we thank you for your compelling work, except,” the cardigan is pulled even tighter as she prepares to drop what Vision assumes is going to be the talk of the hallways for a long time, “the board has set the requirements so that you must work with a colleague in a department that is more theoretically and methodologically different from your own. I have a list in the back of the room with acceptable multidisciplinary pairings.” If Vision had realized the handouts would be behind him, he would have sat in the back corner because at the moment every single person is staring at him, well, technically they are staring past him, but it feels the same. “A good rule of thumb is that you must work with someone who has an office in a different wing than your own.” 

“This,” a second dissenter stands, this time from Vision’s side of the room, the fur stole slouching around her shoulders giving off the image of a widowed socialite more so than the world-renowned researcher she is, “is preposterous and a clear sign of distrust and animosity from the board, not to mention a bit draconian of a measure this early on into the initiative. How can we, as independent scholars, be asked to work under such shackles, thrive under the oppressive weight of what people with no understanding of empiricism think is best?”

Vision will give credit to the head of HR, face remaining stoic despite the (not completely unearned) vitriol slung her way. When her hands finally release the wrinkled hem of her sweater, her voice takes on the non-questioning tone parents pull out when all hope seems lost, “Yes, we are forcing you to work with someone new. Yes, we are limiting some of your freedom, but you all use the funding of our donors, enjoy the bounty that this company gives you, have all the newest technology and programs, and for once, you are being asked to do something out of your comfort zone. If you don’t want to do it, fine, but know that it means you will lose your development funds for the next quarter.” 

Nat breathes out, “Told you,” in between this revelation and the next.

“We don’t care how big or small your study is, it can even be a pilot study or a grant application, but you will work together and you have to find your partner today before leaving this room. Have a nice day.” 

She scurries out of the room, leaving them in stunned silence, a rarity with academics, until a mousy man with disheveled hair and a solid stoop to his shoulders walks up to the microphone. “Um so, yeah, we,” he waves his hand around the room to show them the army of interns standing at the doors with clipboards clutched in their hands, “will write down the collaborations you all set up. We only need your names, departments, and a three to ten word description of your idea. Thanks a bunch!”

No one moves, the part in the sea of chairs remaining firm as eyes begin to shift, assessing first if anyone is going against the orders and second, who might be approachable. Vision angles his knees confidently towards Natasha, “I believe we could find a compelling empirical question between our two areas.”

“I’m actually going to work with Sam.” 

Dumfounded, Vision turns to see the colleague in question sending him a jolly little smile and a victorious wave, unable to fully reckon with the sense of abandonment swirling around his head. “But, but you are the only person I, I know…”

The factoid slides away with an easy shrug, “He and I have had an idea for a while, figured we would use this as our opportunity to finally do it.” Which is fine, Vision won’t stop people from collaborating and he, if he considers it logically, can better grasp how Sam’s research on identifying psychological risk factors in the military marries much better with Natasha’s research on advanced mechanized weapons than Vision’s own work in helping behaviors during extraordinary circumstances. It is a nice melding for them. But, all things considered, it still means that Vision is at a loss. “Just think of this as a way to finally meet people.”

“But I don’t—”

“You know if you had just come out for happy hour and actually met people, I wouldn’t have had to do this.” Predatory smugness rests easy on her lips.

He has only turned down three invitations, all for the sake of unpacking his boxes and organizing his apartment and avoiding the awkwardness of small talk. That is not something worth such a heavy punishment. “Perhaps we can work as a trio?”

Nat’s hair tap dances along her shoulders as she turns down the offer. “Steve sent the memo to me last night, if three people work together, all have to be from different departments.” 

“Wonderful.” Vision joins the rest of the people in the room, sympathetic system in full gear, heart pounding and head a little woozy while he scans the faces around him, not recognizing any of the people on the side of the room he needs to pick from. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“I do, actually, come on.” Blindly Vision follows the red-head, weaving in between the chairs, trying not to make eye contact with any of the desperate faces that sail pass. “Hey,” he spent so much time watching the speckled floor tiles that Vision almost slams into Natasha’s back, “found your partner, as promised.” 

In front of them sits a petite woman, her dark hair falling well below her shoulders in loose waves, the layers of her weathered black clothing blending in with the pleather of the chair. Unlike Vision’s own nerves, she looks impressively unperturbed. “Oh yeah?”

Nat steps aside and pushes Vision closer to the woman, “Meet Vision, from Psychology.” Then she disappears leaving him alone with his collaborator.

The woman’s gaze is steady and slightly unnerving. “Um...” Vision finds himself shifting on his feet, expecting her to stand and then realizes that it makes no sense that she should have to make herself less comfortable to greet him. A new purpose discovered, Vision lowers himself onto the seat two away from her, allowing the comfort of one empty chair for easier conversation. “Hello, I’m, um, Vision.” he sticks out his hand, gray matter flopping uselessly around instead of pulling up all the research he has read on how to make a strong first impression. 

She grips his hand, giving it a solid shake and a, “Figured. Wanda,” before her fingers dive into the pockets of her sweater, and Vision’s, likewise, retreat to tangle in his lap. “So you a clinician like Sam?”

The most logical question would have been a broader, more open ended option like _What do you study?_ for which he has a prepared 30-second elevator pitch he can ramble off in his sleep. He almost does it too, assuming that was the flow of the conversation. Luckily, he catches himself before his misstep, “No, I am a social-cognitive psychologist.”

“Which is?” 

This is a very different elevator pitch, one he has not given in a long time. “Oh, yes, so it simply means that I empirically examine the way situations, external factors, and other people influence an individual’s behavior, beliefs, and thoughts.” 

“Nice. Must be interesting.” 

What had been perceived friendliness at the onset wilts slowly into a polite disinterest and Vision feels oddly more comfortable for it, slipping into his usual comments meant to eschew the common misconceptions of his field. “Please do not be alarmed, I am not reading your mind nor analyzing your every behavior right now.”

Her lips form a marginal curve, falling back into a pucker that matches the scrunched skin of her forehead as she studies him. “You know, I once had a roommate in college who was convinced I could read her mind because she misread my major. Even bought me a ouija board to help me do my thing.” Now it’s Vision’s turn to be confused, trying to figure out what she could study, since spiritual studies isn’t something to find at this institute. “Physics, Vision...I’m a physicist.”

“Oh,” a low, embarrassed chuckle comes out, “oh that makes far more sense than where my mind went. How long did you let her think that?”

“Based on the occasional emails we send, I think she still believes it.” 

The instant Wanda offers an uncertain little smile, he can feel his own mouth mirror it. “Well, if you are not going to interpret my star sign, what do you do?”

“I primarily focus on quantum mechanics with a specialization in optics.” The explanation stops and Vision tries to nod encouragingly, faintly aware of quantum theory due to a rainy Saturday in grad school when procrastination clearly took on a desperate hue, but that’s not enough to really understand what she does or what their collaboration can be. “I do a lot with wave functions, entropy, and lasers”

“Fascinating.” This doesn’t help him any, lasers not a big methodology in psychology.

With introductions out of the way, they reach a standstill, staring at each other, well, looking at each other and then looking away, Wanda choosing to study the sticker peeling off the chair in front of her while Vision glances towards the exit. This is exactly what people are angry about--being forced to find a common ground when collaboration, in Vision’s experience, always goes better when it happens naturally from two researchers who have similar but slightly different theoretical views on life. Vision tries to place himself back to his day spent going down the quantum rabbit hole, attempting to find anything that might bridge the gap between his world and the woman in front of him. Except he has nothing. “It has been roughly twelve years since I took a physics class.”

“About ten for me since I had intro to psych.”

An unsurprising parallel, one he won’t let derail his thoughts, “From what I recall, quantum theory is all about predicting the movement and behavior of particles?”

“That’s the gist of it,” based on the way she says it, it seems that he is approaching the dark room of their collaboration with what might amount to an eraser sized flashlight on the last legs of its batteries. “Most of what I work with are unstable or ambiguous particle systems.” 

This Vision latches onto, feeling his thoughts growing a bit brighter. “I strive to predict behavior, often in unstable or ambiguous situations.” 

A few moments pass before realization erupts on Wanda’s face. “So quantum cognition?”

“If that is a real area.”

He’d like her, “I think so,” to be firmer, more excited, maybe?

“Well wonderful.” It is a start. With most collaborations, he has an idea of how the other person’s theories and methodologies differ from his and where they might meld. That is not currently the case. “I must confess that, other than a couple of review articles, I am not well versed on anything quantum related. Regardless, empiricism is universal and I am certain we could construct a relatively simple experiment where we examine traditional psychological theories of a particular behavior against, um…”

Wanda grins, finishing his thought. “Quantum probability. See who’s better.” He almost points out it’s not a competition, but holds back, uncertain how she might take the comment. “I think it at least sounds good enough to get us out of this room and let me get back to writing my grant.”

This seems doable and a mite exciting, though he can already sense a light panic at not understanding what he has agreed to. “I think we should maybe take some time to read up on the current literature on quantum cognition, perhaps send key articles to each other and see if that sparks any ideas. We can meet later today or tomorrow to hash out a workable study?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

  
  
  
  


Three hours later, Wanda leans back in her chair, a low-grade headache knocking at her temples. The literature on quantum cognition is straightforward when it comes to the mathematical probabilities at play, what is troublesome is the often paradoxical findings and competing thoughts on human behavior. It’s not even the paradox that is frustrating, chaos is near and dear to her heart, a thrill running down her spine whenever she gets to watch the discombobulation of particles as they attempt to settle into their final reality. The moment where all realities are possible is her favorite. No, really it is the human behavior part that concerns her. The articles Vision sent along included experiment after experiment where people chose illogical actions that will harm others. Sure, occasionally there has been a study where they actually help, but it’s depressing to see confirmation of the state of human behavior. Growing up in a war-torn country and seeing the depths of human evil is part of what pushed her towards particles and molecules. That is an entropy she can enjoy, one that won’t set off bombs in apartments or shoot children in the street. She can bask in the glory of not knowing what the end result will be when no lives are at stake. How a man like Vision, who’s face just screams _I’m so terribly sorry_ can study this is really confusing. Not as confusing as the fact that she has now read twelve explanations for the prisoner’s dilemma that all argue different things. 

Wanda shuts her laptop and shoves it in her bag. 

The building is divided into two wings, each wing then divided into six floors housing departments segregated based on closeness of discipline. It means she has to walk extra slowly from one side of the complex to the other so the scalding tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of her mug doesn’t spill over. 

She waves stiffly at Sam as she passes his lab, a little salty at the betrayal of her friends, and continues down the hall, glancing through the windows of each room until she spots Vision. 

The psychologist is bent over his desk, face resting in his hand with the glow of the computer casting slanted shadows on his face. Wanda stands in the doorway watching him, trying to will him to glance up at her, but he only squints and moves closer to the screen. She shifts her bag behind her, switching the tea into her left hand. “Hey,” her greeting precedes the knock, both of which startle the man into a rigid stance. “You busy?”

Vision tries to reassert his calm, hands flattening the invisible wrinkles of his navy sweater. “No.”

“Awesome.” The expectation is he’ll invite her in, a researcher’s lab holier and more sacred than most people’s homes, only he doesn’t move, palms still attempting to dominate the phantom creases. What she doesn’t want to do is talk over the chasm of the lab, so she takes control, entering the room, a mixture of awe, jealousy, and fear forming at the spotless space. Despite the impressive cleanliness there is only one chair and he is currently sitting in it. “Figured we could talk, um,” the only available place is a table, her bag and cup coming to rest on the gleaming surface, “you know, make sure we’re on the same page.” 

“Of course,” Vision waves her to come in farther, his arms crossing casually, and then uncrossing, seemingly trapped in a state of superposition about how to act in the presence of another person in his space. His polite “Please,” finally collapses his uncertainty into a stiff-backed position, with one arm on his desk and the other resting on his crossed knee. 

Wanda accepts the invitation and perches on the edge of the table, legs swinging idly through the air. “So any thoughts so far?” 

“Some.” This remark implies more is coming, so she waits, fingers curling around the edge of the metal table, trying not to stare too hard as he scoops up a pile of stapled packets. When Vision stands it is fascinating to behold, his body unfolding forever, her neck twitching at the instinctual need to crane up with his progress until he is at his full height, which even from her position on the table, is still much taller than her. Somehow she hadn’t noticed this before or how it seems to amplify the clear discomfort her presence is causing him right now. The pile of papers is lovingly placed about a foot from her, allowing her to see the tell-tale structure of peer-reviewed articles. “I have been attempting to not only understand the fundamentals of your area,” the exhaustion cutting his words makes her feel a bit better, worried that only she was struggling with the cross-disciplinary readings. “While also attempting to think of behavioral analogs to the ideas.”

This is what she was hoping for, her end of the project is pretty much set regardless of behavior, the theory relatively stable minus confirming certain things with him. “I’m all ears.”

“All right, so superposition,” Vision picks up a dry erase marker and writes the word in uniformly sized and spaced teal letters. “I believe I understand the gist of what Schrödinger—”

“I like to call him the cat guy.” The attempt at breaking the tension flutters to the ground where he momentarily stares, “It was a joke...” Now he provides a polite snort, turning back to the board so she can’t see the rest of his reaction. 

Any annoyance or disappointment from her attempted levity is short lived, the uncapped teal marker in Vision’s hand waving as he speaks. “The whole thought experiment is based on superposition, that until a decision is made, all possible options exist together.”

“Correct, the cat can be both alive and dead until we pop open the box and collapse reality.” There is more to it, a laundry list of deviations from this basic component, but she doesn’t think muddying the explanation with qubit states or decoherence will be useful for their brainstorming.

The marker kisses the board again, his voice punctuated by the squeak of the silicone polymer, his ideas flowing into a visual while he speaks. “I’ve been trying to think of it with behavior and it could be like if I were to ask you this,” he underlines the question on the board, scrawled in the most perfectly legible writing she’s ever seen. “ _Are you happy?_ Until you answer the question,” a _Yes_ and _No_ join the phrase on the board, “you would exist as both happy and not happy.”

For a beginning example it is okay, though they will need a more nuanced approach in their own research if they ever want to publish it. “Yes, to you I would be both happy and not happy until reality exists and the superposition collapses. But, like the cat in the box, I personally would know my own reality, it’s just you, the researcher that wouldn’t.”

Her words are given careful consideration before he responds. “I hate to use this phrase, but…as a social psychologist,” a little leeway can be given in not categorizing him as a pompous, egotistical academic since he does seem genuinely distressed at sounding just like a pompous egotistical academic, “I am not certain I wholly agree with the assertion that people know their own emotions or even thoughts. For instance, we can shift the probability of your response by adding another question. Like, um,” Vision turns back to the board, hand busy writing out another yes/no question, “this.” Pointing at the question is overkill, but he does it anyway. “If we were to ask someone _Are you currently hungry?_ and then ask if they are happy, we have now changed what their response could be because they are now potentially thinking about how ravenous they are,” which she is in fact considering, something that she wasn’t prior to the example and isn’t particularly happy to have in her mind since it also reminds her that she forgot to eat lunch today. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice the change in her own mood, still professorating towards the board, “and this happens even though the two questions are meant to be independent.”

Wanda tosses aside her angry stomach and slides from the table, joining him at the board, mulling over the marker choices he has and deciding on the red marker he keeps off by itself. “This is actually in line with quantum probability, specifically interference, where the probability of happiness changes depending on other factors. You all use classical probability—”

A very meek correction is given, “I am also trained in Bayesian.”

“Either way, both, for the most part, say things are commutative and order doesn’t matter. But we know it does. In quantum probability we take into account the order of events when we calculate probability.” For a peaceful moment, she considers the questions to be like waves, watching as the two exist together, undulating around and around until a reality is set. Then she writes it down, her slanted, questionably readable letters marring his pristine board. “This example would be what we refer to as destructive interference. Assuming the person is, as you put it, ravenous, it would eliminate the chance of happiness in the second question. On the other hand, if a person was either not hungry or comfortably full, it could be a constructive effect, where it resonates and boosts the happiness.” 

“So, context matters.”

There’s a cunning smirk on his face when he says it, a tiny, unexpected danger entering his voice that she finds a little academically enticing. “Yes, it does, that’s one of the underlying components of quantum theory. We must examine the context of the behavior we are predicting, whether it’s particles, light, atoms, or even people.”

Vision steps back and leans against the table, studying the board with a casualness and ease he hasn’t shown yet, one she imagines he only has when working. “Now we are getting somewhere. My entire area of research is on how the context of a situation can shape behavior, especially in ways that seem irrational or counterproductive.” He seems the type to want to explain and control illogical actions, no one else would button their collared shirt all the way to the top otherwise. “Consider helping.” A far cry from food, which will hopefully stop her stomach from grumbling. “If you were to be walking down the street and saw someone lying on the ground, what would you do?”

“I, um,” it seems a trick, something she tends to assume is a characteristic of those who study human behavior or ethics, so she turns to face him more directly, leaning back against the white board and mirroring his casual stance, “would check on them.”

“What if there was someone already with them?”

Ethically she knows she should check, but she is also aware that, once or twice or a handful of times in the past, she has continued walking by such a scene. “I would likely slow down and assess if more help is needed.” 

“One extra person and it changes,” the marker moves through the air as he talks, “we know that helping is influenced by myriad factors —the presence of others, the feeling of ability to help, the ease with which you can get to help them, whether you know the person, if they have similar demographics as you, if—”

This list is no doubt endless, especially with how his voice revs up with each new factor. Even if he seems nice, decently well-adjusted, and non-threatening, she doesn’t want to spend hours listening to this. “Are you saying you want to test quantum cognition with helping behaviors?”

“Not necessarily,” displeasure seeps into his voice, and then it twists into uncertainty, “well maybe,” and then slides into something close to defeat, “I really do not know, I’m just trying to think through it all.”

A fair approach to take but she also doesn’t want to drag this collaboration out longer than need be, especially since it will take valuable time away from her primary research. “Well, is there a theory you want to test?”

He shakes his head, capping the marker and placing it down on the table, careful to cage it in with his fingers so it doesn’t roll away. “For my part, it is easier to decide the behavior and then identify the most appropriate theory.”

“Okay.” The easiest thing to do is to just tell him they’ll go with helping and be done. She’ll check on him in a few weeks, see what he’s concocted on his end and then she’ll step in. Except part of her wants to use this opportunity to also throw a middle finger at the administration for forcing their hands and taking them away from what they are paid to research. She just doesn’t know if this man is the best partner for something rebellious. “What do you think about all of this, the forced collaborations?”

The question surprises him, mouth dropping open and arm lifting to respond, inadvertently releasing the marker to roll onto the ground and under the table. He bends to retrieve it, still looking a bit lost when he resurfaces. “I believe that multidisciplinary research is the future of all our livelihoods,” definitely not going to be the right partner, perhaps she should have gone for the political scientist that goes to every protest in the region, “yet they are not using ideal methods to encourage such collaboration and are essentially stirring discord that will not further their wants.” 

Maybe Nat wasn’t crazy to have paired them up after all. “What if we choose something ridiculous to study?”

“How...so?”

Wanda shrugs, hands diving into the pockets of her sweatshirt. “I don’t know, something that’s kind of stupid but still theoretically applicable.” Apathy paints his face while a flicker of horror at the defacement of science dances in his icy blue stare. “You’re new, right?” Slowly he nods, arms crossing as he does so. “Each year there’s this unofficial award that we all vote on, we give it to the researcher who managed to publish the most outlandish study in a decent journal.”

His face doesn’t change but he does stand straighter, looking like he’s about to sprint out of the room, except his voice is borderline intrigued. “Like what?”

“Last year someone published a paper on how the fonts that protestors use on their signs invoke different emotions in their opponents.” 

The topic dangles in the air, Wanda a patient fisherman waiting for him to grow curious enough to nibble. Vision’s fingers tap the inside of his elbow and then his shoulders drop. “What font made them the angriest?”

“Comic sans.”

He laughs. The sound starts loud, like he wants to give it his all, but then is cut short into a contained social politeness, presenting her a brief, joyous huff. “Well,” Vision collects himself, shoving his enjoyment away and fixing the unruffled hem of his sweater, “so long as we have a theoretically informed study, I will consider any suggestions you might have.” 

Nothing screams out to her now, and even if it did, she wants to wait, look through the news to see how far she might be able to push him on this olive branch. “Let me think on it.”

He concedes. “We can speak more on it when you are ready.”

“There you are!” They both turn towards the door where Natasha stands. “I’ve been texting you for like half an hour.” 

Wanda’s hands search through her pockets while she glances to an old, black-rimmed clock on the wall. “Oh shit,” no wonder she’s so hungry and no wonder Natasha is upset. “Sorry, it’s on silent in my bag.” 

“Well, come on. Sam’s saving us a table.” 

Wednesdays are $3 nacho night and the last time she lost track of time, the bar ran out of cheese and it took a week for Sam to forgive her. She rushes to her bag, tossing it over her shoulder and chugs her tea. “Let’s go.” 

She’s a few feet down the hall when she realizes Nat isn’t next to her and also, with a mild pang of guilt, that she never officially ended her meeting with Vision. Both of these issues are being rectified by Natasha’s commanding tone, “Vision, I swear to God, if you don’t come with us, I’m never talking to you again.”

  
  
  
  
  


Condensation pools and drips along the surface of the electric blue drink gripped between his palms, a treat from Natasha for finally “being a human and joining them.” The other three are comfortable and amicable with each other, at least six inside jokes already lobbed into conversation and they have only been at the high top for ten minutes. “Okay,” Sam is technically his closest colleague. They are in the same department, they attend at least one weekly meeting together, but still a stranger. Regardless, every encounter thus far, including tonight, paints him as exceedingly nice, personable, and unafraid to take control of a situation, “tell me a fun fact you learned this week that is not work related.” Vision is grateful not just for the inclusive conversation starter but also for the parameter. “Wanda, go.”

“Oh, um,” a creamy cocktail sits in front of her, the array of rings on her fingers, which he had not noticed before, despite watching her write, clinking the glass each time she takes a drink, “I learned that Papua New Guinea has over 800 spoken languages.”

Sam’s approving, “Nice,” accepts the fact and Vision looks expectedly at Natasha, assuming any rational person will move the game clockwise. “Vision, my man, what you got?”

Vision freezes, mind suddenly blank of all the things he has read in the past week, attribution theory even oozing out and falling through the cracks in the tile floor. “Well…” what he had for lunch is the closest he gets to any sort of memory, leftover broccoli soup sloshing through his mind. “Broccoli is a man-made product, created through selective breeding of a common mustard plant.”

“Seriously?” 

All three stare at him as if he has sprouted another head and, in this moment, he believes that perhaps he should have taken the risk that Natasha would never speak with him again. “Yes, same with cauliflower, kale, cabbage, Brussels sprouts…” Finally, their attention leaves him, contemplation manifesting in fingers gripping glasses and long, slow sips of alcohol. 

Sam tips his pilsner in Vision’s direction, “You’ve changed my life.” A well-meaning and empty exaggeration. “Okay Nat, can you top that?”

The easy swill she takes always proceeds a victory, something Vision would welcome, gladly forfeiting the prize of attention and questions to her. “I was reading a news story the other day about how this couple decided to invite a bunch billionaires to their wedding, hoping to get free gifts from them.”

“Did it work?” Thankfully Wanda asks the question before he feels compelled to do so. 

“Apparently, they got gifts from almost half of them.” 

This has to be a function of the secretaries for said billionaires simply sending a gift in the belief this person must somehow be connected, because Vision imagines the secretaries would know any names that would deem an actual RSVP. “Do you think,” Sam’s drink is forgotten as he stares up towards the grubby ceiling of the bar, “you could just send an invite and get a gift, even without a wedding?”

“That would be fraud.” The moral correction comes out before his social mind catches it, three sips of life-endingly strong alcohol enough to lessen his inhibitions, apparently. 

Despite the legal and moral point, no one else at the table seems bothered at the clear violation of federal and state law. “But they’re billionaires, what would one little wedding gift really do to their wallets?” Wanda seems friendly enough, intelligent, driven, and a bit uncomfortably rebellious. This all means he shouldn’t be surprised at her thought, but he’s still a bit scandalized at the complete disregard and even exhilaration in her voice when she speaks of breaking the law. 

Then Sam doubles down on the suggestion. “Exactly. Unless everyone starts doing it, what harm does it cause?” And to think this man is governed under the same ethical guidelines as Vision. What would the APA think of such reckless disregard for the law? “But seriously, would it work?”

For the second time, Vision jumps in more quickly than he should and with a far more sardonic tone than he intends, likely due to the influence of his ruffled feathers. “Still very much illegal but anything can be studied empirically.” Once the words are out, he immediately regrets it, not wanting to spur this conversation any more. It is possible (desired even) they ignore him, Sam already seeming to disregard his addition as he leans towards Natasha. Whatever Sam says is drowned out by a prickle traveling up Vision’s spine, his fight-or-flight response activating at the feeling of being watched. Slowly he turns his head towards Wanda, who levels a discerning, alcohol infused squint in his direction. “Yes?”

“Could you repeat that for me?”

“I, um,” Vision isn’t sure why she’s asking or why he feels like he should change what he said. “I stated that anything can be studied empirically.” 

As he finishes the sentence, Wanda’s lips tip into a wicked smirk. “What a ridiculous idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story I had started a long time ago and only rediscovered last week. I have no idea the interest level in an empirical love story, but I plan to make it as fun, scientifically accurate (insofar as I can without a background in one of the fields), and adorable as possible because those are the ingredients for my favorite rainy day reads. 🙂 Also, thank you to lazy-stitch for letting me rant about this so many months ago and helping steer me to where this ended up.
> 
> Your comments and kudos are always appreciated. 
> 
> I truly hope you enjoyed this!


	2. Design Overview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Vision map out how they will approach their collaboration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick definitional note for this chapter: The IRB (Institutional Review Board) is a board that determines whether or not research with human participants is ethical. Before you can ever conduct a study at a research institution, you have to get IRB approval first. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Wanda stares at the empty pan behind the steamed tilapia sign and sighs, shuffling to the left and scooping what is supposedly a vegetable stew into her to-go box. This setback is par for her day, one filled with a series of disappointing if nots. Like if not for waking up late she would have packed her lunch and if not for Nat having a meeting and Sam working in the field she wouldn't be alone for lunch. Then, if not for needing to work on her grant, which has to be sent to the grant development office for revisions and suggestions by the end of the week, she’d have gone out to get some fresh air and better food. 

Really she can go even further than today. If not for her first yearly review she wouldn’t be scrambling to put something together right now. And, if not for spending her first year on joining Reed’s team to apply for that multimillion dollar quantum loop grant he just secured, she would have already applied for her own funding. But she didn’t and that’s why even though she was applauded for her cooperative research with the other physicists, she was also informed, in very professional and not technically threatening words, that at such a highly regarded institution it wasn't good enough to always be a co-author or secondary investigator. 

Wanda breathes in and tries to ignore the abyss of her future, which will be easier to do with a brownie as a treat for when her methodology is done. 

Three feet to the left and she discovers that all that remains is the sign and a couple of crumbs. That seems fair. It’s not like she’ll even manage to get the methodology done today, her mind scattered in a hundred different directions on what exactly she wants to do with quantum chaos theory. The higher ups not only expect her to be a primary investigator with some significant external funding all her own, but they also demand novelty. She knows she can get there, but it takes time, which she doesn’t currently have. 

Cutting her losses, she pays and heads off to her hermitage, to-go container clutched in her hands and head down, desperate not to get roped into lunch with any colleagues. Not that she doesn’t like them, but she reserves her mental and social energy for the required meetings. Plus, knowing her day, she’d probably get to hear all about one of their exciting and creative grants that happens to also scoop her idea and put her back to square one. 

As she nears the exit, something in her periphery catches her eye and she turns subtly to investigate. The object of attention is the lanky form and blonde hair of a certain psychologist. _Great_. Things went a little uncomfortably silent after her suggestion at the bar the other week and she hasn’t seen or heard from Vision since. Yet there he is. There's a part of her that feels like she should go over and apologize, worried she may have fractured his sense of scientific integrity though Natasha claims he’s fine, simply busy with adjusting to a new job and not gifted at social interactions. The majority of her conscience isn’t particularly concerned with him right now, more than happy to give him space and lots of time to exist in a state of being busy or terrified of her, either reality meaning she has more time to work on her research. And yet she can’t seem to find the confidence to keep walking towards her office. 

Is this how a particle feels when it goes to leap to a new position only to discover it’s entangled with another one thousands of miles away? This desperation to have free will while also feeling an inexplicable pull towards the movement of his sweater clad shoulders as he hunches forward? 

Wanda caves to his quantum energy and heads towards the psychologist, hoping the interaction will free her to go back to work. “Mind if I join you?”

If she was surprised by their entanglement, he’s clearly uncomfortable by it, response a little delayed as he moves his attention from the book in his hand ( _Seven Brief Lessons on Physics_ ) to her face. The slow blink of his eyes could be a startle or that look you give to the person whom you find annoying beyond words and who also still keeps talking to you. Then his ambiguity breaks into a friendly smile, the book waving at the chair across from him, “Not at all, please.”

“What are you,” as she sits down she catches a glimpse of his lunch, mind veering into a different universe, “No, they had peanut butter today!”

His brow wrinkles, smoothing out once he follows her eyes to the beautiful, plump, peanut butter frosted brownie on his tray. “Oh, yes. I usually do not have dessert, but Sean-“

Wanda assumes he’s talking about one of the other psychologists that Sam has also mentioned, “He’s the pheromone guy, right?”

Vision’s, “Correct,” is layered with so much disquiet she is tempted to switch topics and see if he agrees with Sam’s own passionate views of Sean. “But he told me to try one as it would, according to him, ‘change my life’.” It will and it explains why the tray was empty today, those brownies coveted at the institute, the only true unifying belief amongst all of them. “Would you like to split it?”

If not for the fact he was already in the process of cutting it in half, she would have been polite and refused, but you can’t put a brownie back together, right? ”Only if you don’t want all of it.”

“I don’t.”

Wanda accepts the napkin holding her prize and begins to realign their conversation to the reason she joined him, starting small in case he shuts down like he did at the bar. “That’s a good book.” She nods towards the black cover speckled with stardust. It’s the same book she sent to Pietro after he told her he didn’t know how to explain to his co-workers what his sister did. 

“So far, yes.” Only now does she also see Vision’s notebook, margin to margin filled with impeccable handwriting and straight arrows forming various diagrams. “I attempted to read some of your more recent publications,” Wanda holds her breath, preparing for the typical condescension she receives from men outside her field whenever they speak of her work, “and though they are exquisite and elegant, I found my literacy in the area itself severely lacking to grasp the full meaning of your work.”

This isn’t usually how these things go, his eyes turned down instead of up and his voice absent that searing cockiness implying the disconnect in understanding is her fault. She doesn’t know how to handle genuineness, her defenses already built up for rebuttal. “You do know that you don’t have to be a physics expert since that’s my job, right?”

“I am more than aware,” the armor of goodwill might actually tighten around him, “I am simply curious about the field and wish to have some level of knowledge going into our collaboration.”

There’s no deceit evident in what he says. “Um, well, Rovelli is a good start then.”

Vision nods enthusiastically, “It is very accessible,” then his nod lessens into a discerning glance towards his notes, “though it is leaving me with more questions than answers.”

“Welcome to physics.” Unlike her last joke to him, this one he picks up on, a tiny, slightly boyish smile that seems to imply the same joke would work if you replaced physics with psychology. But Wanda isn’t here to talk about physics and doesn’t have the time to likely answer the questions in his notebook, so she moves them along. “Speaking of our collaboration, any thoughts?”

His face and shoulders drop, eyes staring at his spoon stirring the opaque broth in the bowl, his entire demeanor seeming less like the friendly man from moments before and more like a marionette with a lazy operator, the spoon stirring and stirring. Wanda begins picking at the half brownie, waiting for him to reach a thought. She decides that five minutes of this soul crushing silence will be her breaking point to call off the original idea and go with something less ridiculous. Vision only makes it thirty seconds. “I believe,” the words pull his face back up, their eyes meeting, “if we can overcome the ethical and logistical hurdles then it is plausible.”

That’s better than she anticipated. “Okay,” Wanda pushes her lunch to the side, arms coming to cross on the table while she leans forward and settles in, “what are the hurdles?”

“Well, first of all with such a paradigm we would not be able to get informed consent.”

Somehow they’ve already moved from an idea at a bar to a paradigm. “Why not? What’s the paradigm?”

Vision turns back five or so pages in his notebook and then slides it across the table. On the paper she sees several boxes connected with arrows, labeled with numbers that are then explained in the legend at the bottom. It’s gorgeous, aesthetically speaking. “If we truly want to examine gift giving of billionaires,” the idea still tastes bitter in his mouth, the entirety of his presence recoiling at merely saying it, “we have to set up a realistic fake wedding, likely through a wedding website.” He motions for her to turn the page, revealing a sketch of said website. “This site will be sent with the invitation and the RSVP would be here, so we can track it.”

For a man so on edge with the idea, he has it fairly well planned. “And if we get informed consent then…”

“Then we will have told them what we are studying and they will know it is a sham wedding, thus reducing the likelihood of realistic participation.”

Which makes sense. “The issue is?”

“Not receiving informed consent typically requires a full board review by the IRB.”

Wanda has heard Sam complain about the IRB, particularly about the wait time for approval and the, as he calls it, idiotically narrow view of the federal regulations, so she has a small inkling of the horror in Vision’s voice at what sounds like an even more in depth review by the board. “Which we don’t want,” he nods, affirming her read of him, “does it count if we tell them afterwards what happened?”

A toothy grin breaks across his face, “Precisely my thoughts,” he motions for her to turn the page again, revealing a bulleted list of thoughts. “If we have consent afterwards, then we may be able to get around it. Of course we also have to consider how to return any gifts to them.”

“They’re billionaires, not like they’ll miss it.”

This is the wrong thing to say, the joy of empiricism dropping from his face, the same way it did the other night. “Ethically speaking, it would go against the principle of Justice in the Belmont Report.”

“Okay,” whatever this report is, it is clearly near and dear to his heart, “so when we are done we send them all a consent form asking if we can use their data and what they want done with their gift?”

He nods along with his, “Correct. Perhaps we provide different options like returning it or donating it to a specific charity.”

That seems like a reasonable suggestion. “What else?”

Vision glances at his wrist, prompting Wanda to find a clock on the wall and experience the always wonderful chest tightening of anxiety when a day is already half over and she’s gotten nothing done. “I am afraid I need to go back to my lab,” a statement that should elicit relief but she’s a little sad, for some reason, likely because this was an okay distraction from the rest of her bad day.

“Why don’t you send me the list of topics and we can meet up in a few days once my grant is done?”

“Of course.” 

Vision gathers up his reading materials and slides them into a brown leather bag. The next words out of her mouth are a surprise to both of them, “Oh and if you have any questions from Rovelli, feel free to email me.”

This garners an appreciative curve on his lips and a slight downturn of his eyes as he takes in the offer. “I will, thank you.” He stands and it is still a disorienting and mesmerizing sight to behold. “Good luck with your grant.”

“Thanks.” 

By the time Wanda is back to her lab and settled in at her computer, lunch container open and partially eaten brownie placed reverently out of reach, she already has an email from Vision with the subject line _Logistical and Ethical Issues...and Some Questions_. She opens the email and slides it over to her left monitor with the intention of reading over it whenever she needs a break. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


“The place looks nice!” Natasha’s voice reaches him over the soft jazz streaming out of his computer, her eyes roaming over the newest furnishings of his lab as she walks into the room. “Nice you finally have a place for people to sit.”

“It is.” And she uses it, plopping into the chair several feet away from him. Even though he was aware of the sparsity of his furniture (apparently the only standard equipment for their lab spaces are a desk, a chair, and a table), he hadn’t actually cared until his meeting with Wanda and the abject horror he felt at her having to sit on his table. “I think I need to get a few more filing cabinets, but otherwise it is suitable.”

“Probably some wall art too, it’s a little drab.”

“I like it that way.”

Natasha smirks, the same way she does anytime they come to a difference of opinions. “I know, you’re no fun.” A statement that, if actually true, would run counter to their years long friendship. “Want to be fun and get some dinner?”

A tempting offer if he didn’t have so much to finish before his meeting with Sociology tomorrow. “I can’t.” There is no reason to completely forego the offer, and he always finds a delay of gratification necessary for him to be productive. If he wants to finish his work tonight, he needs to lay a promise of reward. “I could meet for breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Fine.” Natasha gracefully stands from the chair, slinging her laptop bag across her chest as if she is leaving. Only she doesn’t move, “What do you think of Wanda?” A discerning and dangerous flicker moves across her face as she waits for him to answer. 

“She seems pleasant to work with so far.” 

The answer is not enough based on the disbelief etched into every inch of Natasha’s stance. “That’s it, just pleasant?”

“We have only actually spoken face-to-face four times, two of them very brief.” 

This still does not sate Natasha’s curiosity, nor does it reveal to him why it seems to matter so much. There’s more she wants to say, her knuckles growing white the tighter she grips the strap of her bag. And then her fingers loosen, as does her face, an amiable yet empty smile flashed in his direction. “I’ll see you in the morning. Our usual?”

“Yes.”

“Night.”

“Goodnight.” He watches her leave before turning back to his computer, the meeting agenda half-finished and staring at him on the screen. It is likely, he imagines from past experience, that Natasha’s aim is simply to help him be more sociable, something that a person like Natasha deems necessary in life. Not that she is dependent upon people (the opposite, in fact), merely that to her it is an essential part of joy. He agrees, to an extent, but also finds solitude freeing and required, a classic introvert. Not that personality factors determine everything in life, he would never give that branch of psychology so much credit. 

A two note chime alerts him to a new email, likely a memo about safety goggles in the chemistry labs being mandatory for all visitors after what Natasha told him happened the other day. Vision clicks over to his inbox and is pleasantly surprised to see the sender is _MaximoffW_ **.**

He isn’t sure why he is pleasantly surprised. As he told Natasha, other than some meetings, he has not actually gotten to know his collaborator. His affective response is likely due to mere exposure given the string of emails they have sent over the last couple of days and also that he seems to notice her more and more around the institute, mainly getting an afternoon tea or at the vending machines in the main lounge. Which itself is simply the Baader-Meinhoff phenomenon. Now that he knows who Wanda is, he actually recognizes her, thus he believes he is seeing her more, and, due to mere exposure, the more he sees her the more positively he responds to her presence. It is simple psychology, nothing more. 

Inside the email is a brief response to his last question - _This will do a better job than me at explaining it_ and then there is a link to a video on the double slit experiment, the most recent line of inquiry they’ve been discussing in terms of the behavior of matter. He watches the video three times, jotting key points and additional questions each time in the section of his notebook he has now dedicated to learning physics. After the third time, he contemplates what to write back. At first it’s _That was very insightful!_ but he deletes it, the cursor blinking judgmentally at him as he tries to think of something more intelligent than that. _This helped greatly in understanding what you were saying about the lasers_ This one he deletes before finishing, not wanting to imply her explanations have not been helpful. They have been, it is just a large and complicated field. Vision watches the video one more time and changes his tactic to witty, or so he hopes. _If someone invents a shrink ray, would we then be able to test the diffraction of humans?_ That seems ridiculous, though she has shown a predilection towards such things. Ultimately he combines them all together and hits send. 

Barely two minutes into working, the tell-tale chime draws him back to his email. _Pretty sure that’s what Pym (my next door labmate) is actually working on. Though he wants to start by shrinking ants_. 

Vision chuckles, intrigued and confounded by the entirety of physics. It is well-known in psychology and other social sciences, that there is not a unifying theory that explains everything. Yet he always had the notion that this is not true with the physical sciences, or at least, they wish for it not to be true. Wanda concurred with this while answering his question about the incompatibility of Newtonian physics and quantum mechanics. Thus it seems there might be multiple theories that might explain phenomena and instead of embracing them all, factions have arisen. Classical ingroup favoritism and outgroup derogation. 

Another chime comes from his computer, still from Wanda but this time unrelated to physics. _Are you still at work?_

 _I am_. 

Almost a minute passes, all spent with his eyes on his inbox. _Me too. 😕 Any interest in ordering pizza and talking about our study? I could use a break from this grant._

Vision stares at the still unfinished agenda and begins to type out a polite decline, until his stomach grumbles. Pizza would not be objectionable and technically he would still be productive, just for another project, plus he can finish the agenda after their meeting. He can’t imagine Wanda will want to be at work much longer. 

_I would be amenable to a dinner meeting. We can meet in your lab since we met in my last time._ He almost hits send and then flashes back to the numerous times he has tried to order food for people without knowing their preferences, so he adds in _If it is possible, I prefer no meat on my pizza._

His notebook and computer are already packed when his phone vibrates, Wanda’s _Head on over_ showing up on the lock screen. 

The journey is fairly painless with the hallways mostly empty, allowing him to consult the various directional signs without people sending him judgmental stares. Even if he has gone to this wing on a couple of occasions to meet with Natasha, the entire Marvel complex is maze-like, stairways not always located in the most sensible places and not all of the elevators going to all of the floors. Eventually, however, he gets to the physic’s floor (or so the sign states) and all he has to do is peek in each window until he sees Wanda inside a room erasing writing from one of her boards. 

Despite the fact she is expecting him, Vision still knocks, taking her wave to mean he can enter. 

When Vision interviewed for the position at the Marvel Institute, he was only shown lab spaces like this one, spacious and fully furnished, a far cry from his somewhat cramped space. There are doors at the back that ostensibly lead to wherever Wanda goes to actually conduct her studies and at the right side of the room is a series of three large white boards. “This is an impressive set-up.”

Pride emanates brightly when she turns to him, arms waving out to the side like a game show model emphasizing the awe-inspiring set-up. “What would Freud say about your lab envy?”

It was only a matter of time until this type of joke was used. He allows every person one pass where he politely laughs at it while also correcting the comment, “Given the majority of Freud's theories are not scientifically based and do not hold up to empirical scrutiny, he likely would not have anything substantial to say.”

“Ouch,” perhaps it was too harsh, though a trace of her smile still clings to her face, “so Freud is off limits?”

“I, um, yes, sorry, it is--”

Wanda shrugs, turning to place the eraser on the ledge of the whiteboard, “I get it, I’m tired of hearing people quote Newton’s laws at me as a way to win an argument when Newton doesn’t even apply.” Has he done this? The specificity of it forces him to go back through every email they have sent and conversation they’ve had. “That wasn’t about you.”

“Oh, good.” He places his bag on one of the many chairs around a table, pulling out his laptop and starting it up before grabbing his notebook as well. “I will endeavor to do no such thing.”

“Thanks.” Wanda picks up a marker and begins jotting down the list of items they still need to discuss, some of them followed by a check mark while others have a star. “So the ones with the check marks,” he looks up to follow her explanation, the uncapped marker pointing at the board as she talks, “mean I think I have a solution for them. The stars are things we still need to decide.”

Over half the list has check marks and he finds himself filled with a buzzing curiosity as to what she determined to do with them. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s start fun.” All of it is fun to him, the prospect of chiseling out the most appropriate methodology the most enjoyable part of research. A close second is running the statistics, but they still have a ways to go before then. “I did a mock-up of a wedding website last night, let me,” she taps away on her phone and soon after he receives a link. Clicking it opens a dark gray background with golden orbs clustered around the outside of a large picture that currently is a stock photo of a happy couple with the copyright information stamped onto it. “Obviously we have to change the pictures.”

“Yes.” And all of the details, each field for venue, date, time, wedding party, and registry left either blank or with TBD written in. There is an RSVP page and a photo page, both empty. “How customizable is this?”

“There are a lot of options.” She bends closer to her phone, swiping the screen a few times. “Yeah you can customize which pages show up.”

Vision clicks through it, most of his mind thinking through the experimental design he is leaning towards and part of his mind trying to figure out why this website seems so familiar. “Is there a way to customize the order in which they see the RSVP and the registry?”

“Um…” Wanda slides her phone back into her sweatshirt and moves to her desktop, the furious clicking and typing of marginal concern, enough that he stands and approaches her work station, watching her move through the website. “I think so, what did you have in mind?”

Vision grabs a stray chair and brings it over, always feeling overbearing and awkward when he stands while someone else is sitting. “Based on your example of destructive and constructive interference, I was thinking we might want to stick with a fairly basic study on order and framing effects that way we can test classical probability against quantum probability with a phenomenon found in both our fields. Perhaps half of our participants receive a website that asks for the RSVP before showing the registry and the other half receive a website that asks for the RSVP only after they have seen the registry information.” 

This is new information to share and so he gives her time to digest it, her head subtly nodding as she processes it all. “I like that idea, not sure it’s possible with this particular website though,” she hesitates, clicking through the various options on the main portal, “if we get desperate we could always talk to computer science about customizing the code.”

“Why does that only have to be from desperation?”

Now she sits back and stares at him, a harrowing quality forming in her eyes about what must be some past transgressions or infighting with that department. “Because if you want to talk to anyone there, you have to talk to Victor von Doom first.”

Oh yes, he had somehow already forgotten the other Victor was their chair. “Is he really that bad?”

Wanda nods, “He just makes me feel really uncomfortable.” 

“I can be the one that speaks to him.”

A contemplative moment passes before she denies what he thought was a reasonable suggestion. “He’ll just tell you no. But,” she inhales deeply, “if it comes to that, you can come with me.” The next part he thinks is an aside, at least he cannot tell what it has to do with getting help. “I’m like 99% sure he has to be a supervillain somewhere in the multiverse.”

The multiverse is something he is vaguely aware of, primarily from reading and watching science fiction. “Why do you say that?”

“Listen--” a loud rock anthem comes from her pocket and she answers it immediately, face a little sheepish at the interruption, “Okay, yeah, be right down.” Wanda hangs up and stands, hands diving into her sweatshirt pockets. “Pizza’s here, I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay.” 

Vision scoots his chair closer to the desk and grabs the mouse, navigating through the wedding website and playing with the placement of everything. It seems it might be hard to create exactly what he has in mind, though it is possible either a different service or a professional could help them. Otherwise it seems like it should work, the privacy settings making it so they can keep it visible only to those who have the link and they can require all RSVPs and gifts to come through this website, both things that had concerned him with planning the potential for this study. 

Which actually is concerning, a pit growing in his stomach the more feasible this all seems. Technically they can do this ethically. Not only did he spend the afternoon re-reading the federal guidelines on ethical research with humans but he also emailed with the chair of Marvel’s IRB to determine if post-participation consent would keep them to an expedited protocol. Though the chair was unwilling to provide any answer with 100% certainty, she seemed optimistic. Plus if they allow the participants to take the gifts back or if they donate them to a known charity and provide receipts, there is nothing ethically or legally wrong. It’s in the moral side that he still is waging a battle. There is just something about the large-scale deception that bothers him. This is despite the fact that deception is often a part of his research, but rarely ever to the extent of fake websites and actual money being exchanged, thus leaving him in a strong state of dissonance. Vision knows, as is usually the case with cognitive dissonance, it is his attitude that will change, not the behavior, and that is precisely what is happening. The more he thinks about the study, the more he communicates with Wanda, the more compartmentalized his thinking becomes. Usually it is in poor taste to use so much deception, but in this instant, it’s fine. He also wonders if there is a degree of moral disengagement going on, if this will irreparably lower his ethical standards and open him up to a world of many more deceptive studies to this degree. 

“Hope you’re hungry.” The words shatter his internal debate, Wanda’s hands gripping an enormous pizza box. Clearly his surprise is palpable, a half-smile going along with her showing him the box, “They only have one size.” 

Vision joins her at the higher table, taking a slice onto the paper towel she offers and then he follows her to two armchairs that face the whiteboards. “I have found that New Yorkers are very invested in abnormally large pizzas.” It’s why they have to fold the slices in order to eat it with any dignity. His first week here Natasha chastised him for wanting to use a fork and knife, telling him it would not go well for his credibility in the city if he did it. 

“They really are, I love it. So the website will work,” her mind has already moved from the pizza, focusing on the board. “Sounds like you have an idea of what you want to do theoretically,” one of the items that had a star, “have you considered also measuring and accounting for demographics or maybe we need to manipulate the fake bride and groom...or groom and groom...or bride and bride?”

All things he has considered. “I truly like the idea of testing the gift giving based on demographics both of the billionaires and the couple…”

“But.”

“But there are only six hundred and twenty one billionaires in the US.” 

Wanda lowers her pizza to stare at him, “That’s way more than I thought there’d be. That’s a lot.”

“It is.”

A hand comes up to cover her mouth as she speaks, not wanting him to see the bite she took, “But…”

Vision has drawn out several factorial designs in his notebook, always loving the complexity of them and their ability to more thoroughly test theories. “When doing community based research, you should plan for a low response rate, like twenty-five percent,” he places his pizza on a table and goes to the board, uncapping a blue marker, “that would leave us with one hundred and fifty six likely participants. This assumes these are the only ones that look at the website.”

“Do you know if we can track who goes to the site?”

A very pertinent piece of information he does not have the expertise to answer, “I believe that is something we would need to discuss with Computer Science,” her nose crinkles at the suggestion. “When you do a factorial design, so let’s say we did a 2 - framing,” he writes the factors as _RSVP first or RSVP second_ , “by 3 - couple composition,” and then he writes the three options Wanda had provided before, “in order to have sufficient power to get effects we would need roughly one hundred and fifty usable participants.”

“Then we have enough.”

This is where he keeps getting stuck, because technically, yes, they would be fine but he highly doubts the response rate of billionaires is anywhere close to the response rates of more normal incomed individuals. “I worry we will get closer to a 15% response rate, though I am happy to consider including such a manipulation.” Wanda seems to accept his concerns and not push it, even if her face says she wants to come back to it later. “I do think we can still code and analyze for demographic information of those who respond as it will likely influence their gift giving.” 

“Good.” It is said with finality, seeming to cement their tenuous design. “With quantum probability I want to have as many factors as possible to build the best model.”

Something he assumed would be the case, and something that he also likes to have even with his classical probability. The next question he prefaces with ignorance, “I am not certain how research in physics works,” a preface she lifts an eyebrow towards, on edge and ready to jump at whatever misinformation he might share, “but do you need to make your hypotheses a priori for the model?”

The jump doesn’t happen, simply a silent bite of pizza and an extended silence. “I’ll make some a priori, but I need to really look at all the possible variables we might code for first, which will have to wait until my grant is in on Friday.” Vision nods, mentally leaving that spot blank in the IRB so he does not forget to insert it. “What are you hypothesizing?”

“I am not sure we should share that information…” at least he had assumed they would not so that he does not influence her own hypothesizing or creation of the computational model. “What if my hypothesis influences yours?”

He watches her lips purse and left leg swing up and over the right one, a smugness and challenge in her stare that activates his sympathetic system, the marker passing back and forth between his hands as he waits for her to speak. “Keep your secrets then.”

Instantly his body calms, the threat gone and replaced by a fluttering amusement. “The last major issue,” there are a lot of minor ones they will need to iron out after her grant has been submitted and before the IRB is turned in, “who will be the bride and groom for the website?”

Wanda stands from her chair, hands wiping against her skirt, “Make sure to eat.” 

“Oh, yes.” He grabs his pizza and takes a bite on his way to join her back at the computer, head cocking to the side as she searches for “attractive couples” and scrolls through the pictures. “I do not think we can do that.”

The scrolling stops her “Why not,” said in a way that implies she is aware why not but wants confirmation. 

“What if they do a reverse image search?” The search immediately stops and she closes the page, putting them back to the blank wedding site and its all too familiar out of focus stars against a dark gray sky. “Did you base this on the cover of Rovelli’s book?”

She sits up straighter, shooting him a wink and a sly smirk, “Took you long enough to recognize it, thought it would be fun little Easter egg.” 

“I like it.”

A companionable and studious silence descends, the couple in the stock photo on the website smiling and taunting him with the fact they can’t actually use the picture. He has thought a lot about what to use, knowing that every single wedding website has pictures and without pictures they would potentially be adding a design confound to their study. Perhaps they should have one site without a photo and one with, a possibility he files away for later. “Can we pay some people to come in and take pictures for us?”

Vision has thought of this as well. “We could, though I imagine we will need more than a couple of pictures and I, personally,” he hates to admit this as he believes it makes him sound greedy or overly self-important, “do not wish to use my start-up funds for this since I have already allocated them to other projects.”

“That’s fair,” there is no apparent disgust at his greed, far more prevalent is understanding, “I don’t really have excess funds either to throw at this.” Again they descend into thoughtful quiet, broken again by Wanda. “Do you have any research assistants?” Vision shakes his head, at some point he will, but he has been informed that he needs a functioning lab before he can hire any additional help. “We could ask Sam-”

“No, I do not feel right asking for free labor from Sam’s assistants.” Particularly after all of the odd tasks Vision’s own advisor required of him during graduate school. He vowed he would never put anyone through such hoops. 

Wanda gets up to retrieve another slice, folding it expertly and dangling it into her mouth. It’s at this point that they make eye contact and he almost breaks it, except the way she is staring at him is like one would at a museum, when you see a painting from far away and squint to determine if it is worth leaving your current path or waiting until you mosey on over to that end. Wanda lowers the pizza and tentatively walks towards him. “You know we probably want two people that are reasonably attractive.”

Vision agrees, having already planned a small pilot test for the attractiveness of the photos. “Correct.”

“And we don’t have the money to pay them.”

“Yes, we have already covered that.” Now it feels like being hunted by a shark, the same feeling he had after she suggested this study. 

Wanda sits back down, angling her chair towards him. “Why don’t we do it then?”

“Well, I-” though his mind rages against the idea with a big, flashing neon NO, logic betrays him, mouth drying as his useless tongue is unable to articulate any sound reasons against it. To be truthful, Wanda is attractive and he is not wholly unattractive. Other than his height, he is fairly nondescript from any other white male of his age. There has to be a catch, there has to be some reason this shouldn’t work. “If they search for our images they will be sent to the Marvel Institute’s website and immediately realize our wedding is suspicious.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, not buying the counterargument. “Well we’ll use different names and we could have a small disguise. Like dye our hair,” something he is not willing to do and nonverbally conveys. “I can dye my hair, always wanted to be a red-head, and you can, I don’t know, wear glasses.”

“That is preposterous.”

The chatter of the keyboard is his only response, her body bending towards the computer until she pulls up a picture and motions towards it, “Works for Superman.” 

It does and, if he remembers correctly, there was a recent study on the effectiveness of disguises that found, as long as the person did not know the individual in the picture, simple disguises like facial hair, altered hair color or style, and yes, a change like glasses effectively made people assume two pictures were different individuals. Empirically and logistically speaking, it is likely their best option. 

“It’ll work.” Wanda’s enthusiasm only seems to grow with each second while his own plummets. “We could even go on fake dates and get a lot of pictures and we won’t have to be paid for it.”

Vision can feel his dissonance being resolved the longer he sits in silence, his lack of verbally declining the option a clear sign he must be, at some level, accepting of it. “It would allow us more control over everything.” 

“It would.”

Appetite gone, Vision stares at his pizza, trying to see if there is any reason not to do it. “Would that be uncomfortable, to take the pictures?”

The unperturbed air from Wanda already answers it, but she adds in an equally casual shrug, “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything more than having to stand close to each other, I mean, we’re practically touching now.” Vision looks down and sees the barely inch of space between their shins and immediately scoots backwards a hair to create a more professional distance. “I don’t mind.” In another circumstance, he would be flattered by the implicit trust she has to even offer this, a clear sign, he thinks, that she does not view him as threatening. Would she be offering this if the other Victor was her collaborator? “But if you aren’t comfortable with it, we’ll find another solution.”

Vision finally looks at her, studying the utter lack of hesitancy on her face and the gentle concern in her eyes about his own feelings on the matter. Social trust and connection is something he has difficulty with in his own life. Logic can help him with this decision. Wanda is trusted by Natasha, a person with even greater social trust issues than himself, and if Natasha trusts her and Wanda is as sincere as she seems now, it should not be an issue. “I suppose it can’t hurt to try it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are finally on the path to fake dating/engagement! Next chapter will be veering more into rom-com territory now that everything is designed. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Not often do I get to combine my two sides of life and I am just going full tilt into it. 
> 
> Hope you have a wonderful day!


	3. Methodology - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Vision go out on an uncomfortable “date” to start crafting their study materials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...as usual, this ended up longer than planned. So for now I only have the first part of their fake dates.

The reflection in the window frowns at Wanda, her hands instinctively reaching to fluff her hair. “How hideous is it?”

Natasha's arms are folded, the hard stare of scrutiny reflected against the dark background of the subway tunnel. “It’s different.” Which means it’s hideous. Every dream and wistful thought Wanda had about being a redhead involved a mysterious, sultry crimson tone. The reality is that she looks more like a carrot than a siren. “Seems appropriate for how outlandish this whole thing is.” Another truth. Luckily it’s only temporary insofar that eventually her hair will grow back and since she can barely recognize herself, it serves its purpose. “I did suggest a wig.”

“I know.” An option that might have been better, but the idea of dealing with it for any event where pictures might happen was overwhelming. 

Natasha checks her watch, a carefully controlled sigh reiterating her reluctant lateness. It’s a mismatch in priorities they’ve struggled with since Wanda moved for this job and answered the roommate wanted ad on the Marvel Institute’s listserv. Somehow Nat is always ready twenty minutes before they have to leave, moseying purposefully and judgmentally around their apartment until Wanda is ready. Tonight she kept repeating _get dressed_ like a broken record. “You know Sam is sometimes late.” Unless it is for nacho night or a run or work, which Wanda won’t acknowledge out loud. 

“But Vision isn’t.” A trait Wanda can’t attest to so she’ll have to trust Nat. “Seriously. We used to compete to see who could be the earliest.”

That’s...not something she would expect from him, Natasha, yes, she will and does make anything into a competition, a large factor in her standing in her academic field, but Vision seems so calm about everything. Wanda dismisses the information while rearranging her hair again, “Sam’s pretty convincing if he wants to be late.”

“He’s not that convincing.” The rebuttal shifts with the jerking stop of the subway, Wanda instinctively reaching out for the pole to steady herself while Natasha remains perfectly still. The doors open and a small wave accompanies Nat’s, “Let’s go.”

The plan for the evening isn’t entirely clear to Wanda, and the breakneck pace they’re walking doesn’t give her a chance to ask what’s going on. All she knows is two days ago Vision popped into her lab to inform her that he had been brainstorming ideas with Natasha over breakfast (something Wanda is never awake early enough for) and they thought of a decent “date” that would allow for “perception of intimacy while never requiring actual physical closeness.” A concern she had hashed out with him four days prior when they began to, in earnest, discuss what it meant for them to be _the couple_ in their study. It was a long and fairly entertaining meeting, complete with a venn diagram of behaviors that are exclusively friendly, exclusively romantic, or flirt between the two - like a hand to the upper back or an arm slung around the shoulders. Every single aspect of their fake personas had to be ironed out, from their names to their clothes, their jobs and their hobbies, Vision insisted they have a firm grasp of who these characters are so that it can help to “relinquish the hold of the psychological confusion their dissonant actions will be causing them.” Whatever that means. 

They turn down a street and in the middle of the sidewalk she sees that they are, in fact, late, and based on the way Vision checks his watch three times as they approach, they are very late in his book. 

“Well look who decided to join us!” Sam flashes them a smile, one he has no right to be so cocky about. “Pretty sure this one was about to call the whole thing off.”

This one frowns, an action that looks odd with his new tortoise shell glasses. “I was on the verge of a phone call to check on their safety, thus it is an unfair exaggeration to suggest I was going to leave.”

“It’s her fault.” The metaphorical bus Natasha is driving runs right over Wanda. “You all excited?”

Like herself, Vision seems apprehensive, though Sam is beaming with barely contained enthusiasm, “Oh I am, what’s the plan?”

“Well,” Vision fiddles with his glasses, which is kind of comforting since she’s been doing the exact same with her hair since she dyed it this morning. “Natasha was kind enough to book this for us and said that she explained our situation,” a word that is uttered like it has the chance of opening a portent to hell itself, which could be the end result of all of this, “to the manager and the likely large volume of pictures we will be taking.”

“Any request in what we get pictures of?” Natasha stays solely focused on the logistics, making it seem like she’s not enjoying every second of this. 

Wanda doesn’t miss the questioning glance from her bespectacled collaborator, the baton of planning passing to her. “I think pretty much anything. We asked you to come because we trust your judgments.” Sam clutches his heart. “You are welcome to direct us on what might look good.”

Natasha nods, soaking in the information. “Anything off limits?”

Another adjustment is made to the rims of his glasses. “Yes. Slight touching is acceptable, mainly of the back and arms. An arm around the shoulders or waist for a picture is fine but anything more intimate, including all forms of kissing, is off limits.” 

Sam shoots them a thumbs up. “Got it, we’ll just hang back, take some pictures, and let you all do your thing.” This positivity contrasts noticeably with Natasha’s stern and questioning face. 

“Have you two actually practiced?”

Another thing they discussed and then the reality of it all led to a _Would you look at the time_ , _so much data to analyze_. There is no reason to be deceitful, especially to Natasha. “We haven’t.”

This must be how Einstein looked when he was collaborating on the EPR paradox*, open disdain and a dumbfounded shake of the head at how they could overlook such a big issue. “I believe,” Vision seems to take on the mantle of Niles Bohr, responding quickly and in a tone that implies this is a non-issue, “the activity tonight should not rely on such actions.”

“You really think you’ll walk in there and just look like a couple?”

He fixes his glasses again and then smooths his sweater, a sign Wanda has learned means he is being pushed towards a cognitive or ethical ledge. It’s kind of nice to not be the direct reason for it right now. “We only need some pictures, it should not be difficult to get a couple usable ones.” 

“I think you should practice.” Sam’s continued enthusiasm is not shared by Vision. Personally, Wanda’s ambivalent towards it all, maybe slightly more amused than not. “Give her a hug.” 

Smoothing his sweater transitions into his next line of defense, twisting his wrist just enough to check his watch. “We should get inside.” 

Vision begins walking, the rest of them falling in synchrony with his steps until Sam pushes one more time. “At least hold her hand, she’s your fiancée.”

Stiffly Vision reaches out and she slides her fingers through his with an apologetic smile, “I’m sure they’ll cool down inside.”

He squeezes her hand with a remorseful, “I fear the opposite,” 

  
  
  


Of their two hypotheses, neither is supported because they have encountered something far worse. “Tonight,” the lighting overhead is bright, so much so it drowns out the dozens of candles flickering along the periphery of the room, “you will be taken on a journey through the sensual,” the word is underscored by the woman’s ambiguously foreign accent and sultry stare, “erotic world of food.”

Wanda leans to the left, lowering her voice, “What the hell is this?”

“You will feel invigorated,” the woman surveys the room, eyes stopping on each couple for a half second, “turned on, even.”

“I…” Vision’s voice cracks, quietly, fingers fixing his glasses for at least the fifteenth time since they walked into the room, “I have no idea.” Mortification strangles his words almost as tightly as he tied the required bright pink apron around his waist.

When he told her that he had a good idea for their first “date,” she believed him since he’s, so far at least, been the more even-keeled of the two of them. If she knew that he thought being crammed into a lower east side apartment with six other couples and a cooking instructor that says things like, “Cooking, just like relationships, requires give and take, so be ready to give to your partner and take,” with a snarl like a lion in heat, “what you want,” she would have just folded up the study and picked something a bit more mundane.

His hands have moved from his glasses to straightening out the wooden spoons, tongs, and knives on their station, his voice still a strangled whisper, “I had tried to get us seats at the Institute of Culinary Education, but they only had two, so Natasha,” Wanda glances up to find her roommate smiling at her over the divide of the rickety, wheeled cooking station, “said she knew of a good second option.” 

“It has really good reviews,” Natasha defends her choice, voice dancing with a glee Wanda always feels anxious about, one that occurs when Natasha is orchestrating something outside of anyone else’s control. “It’s going to be fun.”

“I’m pumped!” Sam pops a spiced pistachio into his mouth, a snack provided to all couples to ‘set the mood’ by setting their mouths on fire. Wanda’s anxiously eaten half their bowl already and may have successfully burned off her taste buds. “Never done something like this before.” 

“On all of your tables you have been supplied your ingredients, a recipe, and a list of flirty little ice-breakers,” Wanda tugs the basket towards the edge of the table, curious what’s inside. “Don’t forget to taste everything, smell everything, and, most importantly, touch _everything_. Now go get down and dirty!” 

A hand reaches past Wanda to grab a laminated sheet of paper, “It appears we are tasked with making moroccan roasted beets with pomegranate.”

“That sounds good.” She begins taking out the ingredients - first the bundle of beets that are very intentionally placed closer to Vision, not wanting to have odd colored fingers to go along with her hair, and then she puts the pomegranate on her cutting board, followed by a collection of spice bottles and balsamic vinegar. Vision picks up the bottle to inspect the label. “Don’t trust her taste?”

The vinegar droops in his hands as he figures out the best way to respond, “I would not reach that conclusion, no, I was simply curious.”

“What’d you all get?”

Wanda holds up the pomegranate as she answers Sam’s question, “Roasted beets and pomegranate. You?”

“Peppered strawberries dipped in a chili chocolate sauce with whipped cream,” the laminated recipe waves in their direction, “says here that strawberries and chili are both aphrodisiacs. While,” he consults the page again, “the whipped cream is just for fun, italicized and with a winky face.”

Based on the steady blush moving up Vision’s neck, Wanda assumes their recipe is just as descriptive. “Can I see it?” It is handed over willingly, allowing him to roll up the sleeves of his teal sweater and grab the beets. “Our aphrodisiacs are pomegranates, pistachios, and fennel.”

“It is odd that cumin is not highlighted,” the comment comes as a surprise, her cooking partner not someone she would peg for being an aphrodisiac believer.

Wanda places the recipe down and leans her back against the kitchen station so she can have a better view of Vision. “Oh yeah, why is that?”

The bundle of beets in his hand shimmy with his gesticulations, “Well, historically cumin has been used to keep both chickens and lovers at home.” The fact is thrown out in an easy yet detached manner, as if he is functioning on some sort of factoid autopilot as he comes to terms with their surroundings. It takes a couple seconds before he picks up on having shared the fact, rushing to contextualise it, “I enjoy food shows and podcasts.”

“Is that why you chose this?”

The beets come to rest on the cutting board and his hands hover over the supplies until he finds a small vegetable peeler. “Not quite,” he finally looks at her, offering a weak shrug to go along with his words, “it is an activity I’ve always wanted to try with others.” 

She expected it to stop at _always wanted to try_ but the addition is meaningful, especially from a man who puts so much thought into every word. “Do you do this by yourself?”

Slight embarrassment tugs at the corner of his mouth, “I do,” something seems to click in his mind, face blanching and he quickly adds, “not couples’ courses like this. I have never ever in all the cities I have lived seen something like this.”

“I figured.” The embarrassment morphs into a more tilted appreciation of her connecting the dots. She can’t help but feel a little sad at the image of him going to classes alone. Why she feels that way is unclear, especially when many of her own hobbies are solo events. “So does this mean you know how I can work with this?” Wanda gestures vaguely at the pomegranate that’s been staring at her from the table. 

“I do.” The beets are left to rest as he walks to the other side of her. When she offers him the fruit, he shakes his head, “I will let you do it.” She places it on the cutting board and waits for his instructions. “Usually you’ll first want to roll it around a bit in order to loosen up the seeds inside.”

“Like an orange before you juice it?”

“Precisely.” He smiles at the comparison, watching intently as she starts moving the fruit around. “Did you know that pomegranate means apple with many seeds?”

Wanda tries to focus on both rolling out the pomegranate and her live fact machine, “I didn’t. What do I do next?” 

“You, one moment,” he holds up a finger before shifting from his spot to reach around her and grab a decent sized knife with indents in the blade.

“Hold it there.”

Vision freezes at Sam’s command, his body hovering awkwardly behind her with the knife mid-air, “I do not believe this is the safest position to stop in.”

Sam’s phone ascends as he moves to his left, ignoring Vision’s fairly logical point, “You’re alright, this is a really good shot.” The nodding of Natasha implies this isn’t a joke and Vision slowly places the knife back down. “Um Vision,” the phone moves forward and backward, “I need you to lean a bit more around Wanda,” which he tries to do without touching her, but at Sam’s insistence of “a little farther, a little more,” Vision loses balance and brings his hand to her waist to steady himself.

“Sorry.”

“You’re fine, it’s in the rules.” 

There’s a flash and Wanda blinks away the spots flickering in front of her eyes. “Can you two look at each other and maybe, I don’t know, smile?” 

Bringing along Sam might have been a mistake, though if Natasha was here as the solo photographer, it may still be the same, her encouraging whispers driving their friend on. “I am beginning to doubt,” Wanda looks up to see the attempted smile on Vision’s face as he quietly complains, “some of our choices.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” Which gets a small, infinitesimal smirk from him and there is another flash followed by a _You’re good, man._

Vision extricates himself from their forced partial embrace, picking up the knife and shuffling safely back to his prior place next to her. The handle of the knife is presented to her. “You’ll want to score along the diameter but not too deep that you crush the seeds.” Having only ever eaten the seeds, Wanda has no idea how deep it goes, so she moves slowly, inserting the knife and giving her partner an expectant look, “A smidgen deeper,” across the table she can hear a jubilant _that’s what she said_ and ignores it, not wanting to go down that path right now. Instead she focuses on her task and, once Vision gives her a thumbs up, cuts around the fruit. “And now you’ll need to tear it in half.”

“Just tear it?”

“Yes.” 

“Like a cavewoman?”

An amused not-quite-a-laugh snort is the harbinger of him finally loosening up, “I suppose that is an apt description.”

“Okay, so just,” she works her fingertips into the groove she cut and slowly pries it apart, revealing the bundles of seeds inside.

“Well done.”

Even though she knows what a pomegranate looks like, seeing it now sparks a conversation they had a couple days ago, “Hey,” Vision provides a brief _hmm?_ , “you know how you said you wish there was a better visual of relativity versus quantum mechanics?”

“I did…”

“Look.” She closes the pomegranate and waits until he follows her direction, “In relativity, reality is like a fabric wrapped around all matter,” she opens the pomegranate, putting the vibrant seeds on display, “but in quantum mechanics we look at the way particles interact and jump through reality.”

A soft, almost pleased wonder perks up his face, “Would this also be an apt example of quantum loop theory?”

Wanda stares at the pomegranate and then to him, a little impressed at the leap he made to a theory she’s only briefly introduced him to, one that is trying to rectify the two theories into a unified understanding of the universe. “Look at you, want to join Reed’s grant now?”

“Oh heavens no.”

She laughs at the denial and puts the fruit back down, “Any tips on getting these seeds out?”

A raised finger, his seemingly favorite gesture to ask her to hold on, and he slides behind her again (this time without interruption) and comes back with a wooden spoon. “Turn it upside down over a bowl and then just,” he pantomimes the action, “smack it.”

“Got it, thanks for the help.”

Vision flashes her a close-lipped smile and an, “Any time,” and moves back to his side of the station, returning his own attention to the beets she made him abandon. 

Barely five seconds of peace pass before their directors step in, “Anyone interested in some ice-breakers?” Natasha shows off the laminated list to emphasize Sam’s question.

Vision slows in his peeling and glances at Wanda, uncertainty returning to his face. Though she’d rather work in quiet, they might as well get the full experience. “Why not.”

She expects his shoulders to deflate, or maybe a sigh, instead he seemingly is fine with it, continuing to work along while asking for clarification. “Are we answering these as ourselves or as our characters?”

“Yourselves,” Natasha takes over, grabbing the sheet from Sam, “no reason we have to know more about Edwin and Marya.”

Just like the activity itself, Vision accepts the answer easily, “Very well.”

Sam and Natasha consult the sheet while Wanda smacks the rest of the seeds out of her pomegranate and checks the recipe for what’s next. It’s not until she’s gathered all the spices and gotten them into the mortar that the question comes about. “Wanda, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Oh, no, not at all.” 

“An empirically supported belief.” Vision’s commentary has a hint of pep to it, aligning with her observations that he’s never more animated than when empiricism is involved. 

“Two romantics here, I see,” Sam’s joking tone helps lighten the air around them. “Alright, Vision, what’s your biggest turn on when you’re on a date?”

His nose crinkles at this, eyes never leaving the careful, slow quartering of the beets. A deep, elongated silence leaves her, and she’s certain their partners, waiting in anticipation. “I suppose empathy.” 

For some reason she expected intelligence to be his answer. “Fascinating, okay Wanda, what about you?”

This should have been expected and yet she was so focused on what Vision would say that she hadn’t put much thought to it. Intelligence is up there, but then she has been on numerous dates with highly intelligent people who are also assholes. Humor is always nice, a bit cliche, but she does enjoy laughing on a date. Except she also hates when someone’s entire schtick is humor and they never let her talk or take a break from jokes. She thinks back to her last semi-consistent dating partner and why it ended since he was both funny and freakishly intelligent. “I think actually listening to what I have to say.”

The approving nod from Vision shouldn’t make her feel like she does, akin to scoring the highest on a comprehensive exam, but it’s nice to get validation sometimes. “That’s a good one,” Natasha agrees, turning back to Vision, “What types of pet names most appeal to you?”

Something doesn’t seem to sit well with Vision, his red tinged fingers swooping through the air as he talks, “Why are you two not answering any of these?”

“You’re the ones we need pictures of. The more we can get you both to talk, the better the pictures will be.” Natasha’s response leaves no room for fighting back, and yet, Vision appears to be cogitating on a rebuttal. It’s a little unexpected how readily he is willing to go toe to toe with Natasha. “I’m not taking any of your logic so just give up, Vision.”

Apparently this is the best way to temper any dissent, a shrug from her collaborator and the topic is dropped as another beet is quartered. ”I have always been fond of more refined literary names for cats, like Huxley or Bartleby,” Wanda had forgotten what the question was and tries to figure out why he’s talking about cats. Then she meets the stares across the table and she remembers it was about pet names...for people, based on the context of their environment. Sam’s face is contorted as he tries not to interrupt when Vision keeps going, “For a dog,” so Wanda firmly shakes her head that he should not, under any circumstance, correct Vision because, if she’s being honest, this is really adorable and Vision doesn’t deserve the embarrassment, especially right now. “I have always been fond of Sparky.”

Wanda keeps the conversation going before anyone else can steal it away, “We had a dog growing up named Šnicl,” blank stares remind her that no one else here speaks Sokovian, “it means schnitzel.”

Sheer, unadulterated joy pivots Vision’s body towards her, “That is precious.” He returns to cutting and then stops, turning back towards her, “What type of dog?”

“He was a mutt,” it’s been forever since she’s even thought of Šnicl, a stray their father brought home one day. They worked together to bathe it, brush it, and get it ready to convince their mother the dog should stay. She caved and they had him for a few years before the war intensified. “We think he was part Tornjak but mixed with something smaller.” Everyone knows that at this point people ask for pictures, and Vision’s face suggests that is the route he’s going to take, “I don’t have any pictures.”

“I have never heard of that breed.”

Wanda pulls out her phone now, googling it to show him, “Yeah, it’s native to the area.”

“That is much larger than I imagined a dog named Šnicl to be.” It doesn’t escape her that he tries to say it correctly, he fails, pretty miserably, but it’s the effort that’s appreciated.

“Hey Wanda,” Natasha pulls her away from the image on her phone, “Looks like there’s some wine available, want to help me?”

“Um, sure,” her phone goes back into the pocket of her sweater and she excuses herself from the cooking station, following Natasha to the main kitchen counter where there are rows of full wine glasses. “This is going well.”

Apparently her assessment is incorrect, Natasha’s eyebrow raising at the claim, “No, it’s not. Look at these,” Wanda scrolls through the candid pictures that have been taken and begins realigning her beliefs, “you two look like a couple that just realized it’s not working anymore.” They really do, all of the smiles are strained, their bodies are stiff and acting like two particles with a negative Lorenzt force, drifting apart as much as the space allows. 

“What do you suggest?”

“Flirt with him.” Even if this seems the most straightforward it’s also not what she expected nor wanted. “I’m serious, Wanda. Treat it like an actual date.”

Exactly the mindset she and Vision agreed not to have because he said it is that mindset that leads to psychological and behavioral issues in undercover agents. “I don’t think he’d be receptive to that.”

Natasha hands her two glasses of wine, “Listen, I know he seems all meek and proper, but I promise, you dish it out,” she turns away to grab two more, “he’s going to give it right back. You just have to establish the norm.” 

They return to the table where Sam and Vision are discussing a recent study published that supposedly is hopeful for some replication crisis. “Wine,” Natasha hands out her second glass to Sam and motions for Wanda to follow suit. 

“Here.”

Vision accepts it with a cheery, “Thank you.”

Ignoring the expectant stare from Natasha and Sam, Wanda sips her wine (which is pretty good) and studies her “date.” He takes a single, tiny sip of the wine and then places it down so he can return to cutting the beets.

It’s kind of amazing how different he actually looks tonight. He did send her the empirical article about disguises earlier in the week, though she didn’t really believe they’d be successful. Yet there he stands, in new glasses, his typical button up gone from under his sweater, and his usual dress slacks replaced with surprisingly form fitting jeans. A new man, well, the same man but a new persona, and all she has to do is channel her own cover, one Marya Django, and flirt with him. There are more monumental tasks than that. “You know for someone who goes to cooking classes, I’d expect you to be a little faster at cutting those beets.”

The comment hits exactly as she wants it, any awkwardness and perturbation falling away as his face takes on the stealy, mildly amused look he gets whenever she tosses out an outlandish idea during their research meetings. “I will have you know that I have been praised for my _mise en place_ in the past.”

Wanda juggles the information with her shoulders, bobbing it from side to side as if it’s a paltry thing to say, “I mean, unless you have proof, how can you support such a claim?”

Now is when she finds out if Natasha’s assertion is correct, whether he can dish it out or if he’s going to do what she expects him to do, which is move this along. “I believe you should be able to observe my exquisitely uniformed beet quarters and reach such a conclusion.” A wave of his maroon tinged fingers brings her closer and she inspects the cutting board, trying to seem unimpressed while actually being extremely impressed at the fact everything looks the identical. 

“They do look good, but you’ve been pretty slow.” His head cocks to the side now, the playful narrowing of his eyes really amplified behind the strong prescription lenses. “I already finished my pomegranates,”

“With my help.”

Deciding it’s time to set a new norm for them, she reaches out and squeezes his upper arm, finding it more muscular than expected, not that she had any expectations of him. “Which I appreciate, but I’ve been done for a while. I’ve even crushed all the spices.”

“I am very proud of your work.” It’s dry while also being sincere and it’s a tiny, tiny bit saucy. Wanda wonders if Sam had a similar talk with Vision or if this is just who he is once he’s pushed far enough. Either way, it’s kind of fun. “Would you mind bringing the spices over so I can use them on the beets?”

“Will do, Mr. Miso Place,” 

“Mise en place.”

While Wanda is grabbing the mortar and pestle, Natasha acts out smelling a bowl to her at the same time Sam holds up his phone. “Want to smell them?”

“I,” his confidence can’t hide confusion, but he recovers quickly, “I would.” Vision reaches for the bowl and Wanda moves it out of his reach, instead bringing it up towards his face. A slight bend allows him to smell it, his eyes closing like a food critic in a movie wafting a dish they’re about to tear apart. “That is actually amazing.”

“I threw a bit more cumin in there, gotta keep you around.”

And there’s a blush, small but dark on the tips of his cheekbones, “I do hope I do not find cumin sprinkled in my lab tomorrow.”

Wanda hands him the spices with a, “That’s not a bad idea.”

As Vision tosses the beets in some olive oil and the spices, Wanda sees the double thumbs up from across the table and then Natasha points at the list of ice-breakers. Reluctantly Wanda fishes out their own sheet and moves a little closer to Vision, who is still diligently mixing everything together. “So Vision, what is your favorite physical feature in a romantic partner?”

“Probably,” the word vibrates with the action of him pouring and shaking the beets onto a sheet pan, “um, their hands.”

“Hands?”

Regret is etched into his forehead when he turns towards her, the sheet pan forming a physical barrier between them, “Um, yes, I just like the form and beauty of their function. Um, hands can do so much.” 

With each word he falls closer to where they were at the beginning of the night and she isn’t sure how exactly to make it better, “What do you think of my hands?” Of all the options, that’s probably not the best one, but it’s too late now.

He looks at them, what seems for maybe the first time, an honest somewhat unnerving seriousness on his face, “I find all of your rings aesthetically pleasing.” An admission that seems to slightly pain him or it could just be his lingering disquiet with tonight. “What is, um, your favorite feature.”

This she doesn’t need to contemplate at all, “Oh, I’m all about the ass.” Which now seems perhaps a bit too frank given his silent reaction. “It’s my weakness.” And now she kind of wants to die or have the instructor come over to them and say something overly sexual to at least cut the tension. 

“I need to put this in the oven.” It seems he’s going to leave but he stands and stares at her and then the beets, a thought churning in his mind. “I say this as only my character to yours,” a comment that piques her interest, “but I do hope you enjoy the view.” 

He walks away and Wanda, as Marya solely, lets her eyes linger a little bit on the nice fit of his pants. A flash breaks her ogling and Wanda turns an annoyed glare to Sam, “What? It was a good picture.”

The second Vision is back to their station, the instructor takes over, “Now that the last dish is in the oven,” seems Vision isn’t always the earliest, “make sure to dive deep into those questions at your station, they are the precursor to our main, titillating event.”

“That is worrisome. Should we leave before this gets worse?”

It’s only partially serious, so Wanda responds in a way to eliminate any last ounce of sincerity in the suggestion, “You just want me to stare at your ass again.”

Vision almost rolls his eyes and she finds it delightful, making it a new goal to get him to break down enough to actually do it. “How about we start the balsamic reduction instead.”

“Go for it,” the task seems a one person venture, leaving Wanda to scan the list of questions, “Do you prefer cuddling or making out?”

There is a stoop to his body as he eyes the amount of vinegar in the plastic measuring cup, “Though both are very enjoyable, cuddling is my preference.”

This isn’t on the list of questions, but she finds herself curious, “Big spoon or little spoon?”

He places the pan on their single induction burner and adjusts the settings until he seems happy with it and then all of his attention moves to her. “Due to my stature, I tend to be relegated to big spoon.”

“But deep down,” she touches his arm with an exaggerated concern, “you’re really a little spoon?” 

There’s a second almost eye roll and a pucker of his lips as he admirably tries not to laugh. “That is correct.” Carefully he picks up the pot and swills the liquid around. “And you are?”

Wanda considers it, torn because one offers an amazing feeling of safety, while the other lets her provide that feeling and be the protector. “I think I’m an ambi-spooner.” Now he does laugh, a refined little chuckle that seems to match his personality perfectly. 

“Hey,” Sam cuts into their moment, “why don’t you spoon him?”

“Right now?” 

Natasha, ever the co-instigator grabs the idea and runs with it, “Oh yeah, just hug him from behind while he works on that reduction.”

Hugging landed in the equally romantic and friendly realm of actions and was also one that both of them said would be only if necessary. This doesn’t seem necessary. Vision’s thoughtful and slightly reluctant, “It is in the rules,” suggests she may be interpreting the rules differently. 

“Um, okay,” Wanda moves behind him and studies how exactly to do this while standing...well the mechanics are straightforward, he’s just so tall that she isn’t going to be in this picture. Maybe that’s what they want? She snakes her arms around his waist and pulls him snug against her, unintentionally catching a whiff of his cologne which is subtle yet nice. A hand cups around hers and gives a squeeze of reassurance that this is okay. 

“Can you maybe peek your head around his side.” It requires her to shift her weight and for him to lift one of his arms up and over her, resulting in more of a side-ways snuggle than a big spoon little spoon situation. “And how about we get some smiles, say Data!”

Their unisoned, “Data” precedes the flash from his phone. 

Natasha and Sam hunch over the device, faces unreadable and whispering back and forth. “That was a good one.” 

With Sam’s benediction, they untangle and it’s a little chilly outside of his embrace. A feeling she immediately squashes. Thankfully (maybe?) the instructor approaches their table, a toothy grin foretelling something awful, “Here are your supplies for our big game.” A strip of hot pink fabric and a tray of covered dishes is passed to Vision. “I’ll be giving instructions in just a minute, so just keep holding each other tight until then,” a big wink goes along with the comment.

Vision puts the tray down and picks up the piece of fabric, mouth forming a downward convex, “I am truly terrified right now.” That makes two of them. It seems either someone is being blindfolded or they are about to experiment with some bright pink bondage. 

“Okay all you sexy culinarians,” their fate begins to build as the instructor talks, “I want to really intensify,” never a good word in situations like this, even though this is the first time she’s been in the situation, “your experience with a little game of trust and sensuality.”

Vision’s uncouth, “Oh God,” is funnier than it should be and she lets out a nervous laugh. 

“One of you will need to put on the blindfold I’ve provided,” that’s preferable to the bondage at least, “and the other will be your guide through the unctuously intimate experience of the pleasure of food.” 

Sam already has his blindfold on, a big smile on his face and an attitude that Wanda is envious of, “I’m ready for some food, Nat,”

Vision, the blindfold dangling in his hands, stares at it with Wanda, “I do not think I can wear this over my glasses.”

“You know you could just take them off.” 

The obvious logic clearly isn’t appreciated based off of the droop of his shoulders, “I-”

Considering the rest of the night, he has already been forced to hold his pose behind her and be snuggled, granted she was the other party, but she trusts that he’s not going to abuse this. “I’ll do it,” Wanda turns her back to him, “just help me put it on.”

The world goes dark, with a pink tinge, and she can feel his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her stance, likely to keep her away from the hot burner. “To my non-blindfolded lovers,” the woman’s voice is even more grating when Wanda can’t see her, “you are going to move through each container on your tray. Make sure to guide your partner through each bite, and don’t be afraid to clean up any messes for them,” if she could see right now, no doubt the instructor would be winking like she had a lash stuck in her eye, “anyway necessary.” 

“Okay,” there is a scraping and then clink of a lid followed by the rustle of Vision’s apron, “please open your mouth,” Wanda follows his entirely unenthusiastic command. The touch of metal on her lips is odd when she can’t see what she assumes is a spoon, and then she can feel it tilt up and a salty, stony object tumbles into her mouth. 

A few experimental chews leads her to believe it’s a nut of some kind, “Is it a peanut?”

“No, a pistachio.”

“Damn.”

“Um next,” Wanda opens her mouth again, gauging Vision’s actions based on how close his breathing seems to be. Another spoon touches her mouth and she tilts her head back with the movement of the spoon. This one is a little slimy with a burst of acidity and citrus when she bites down. “What do you think?”

“Definitely an orange.”

Affirmation is not given, instead he offers the technicality of, “It’s actually a clementine.”

Even though he can’t see her response, she does her best to allow her slight annoyance to reach her shoulders, “I think that’s close enough for success.” 

The initial silence is loaded enough that she assumes he is shrugging, “Would you be happy and confident enough with a _p_ of .5?”

“Where are you?” She waves her hands out until he gently grabs it. “Thanks, can you turn your shoulder towards me?” The soft threads of his sweater meet her hand and she playfully shoves him, “I don’t need your sass.”

Another lilting laugh reaches her and she smiles at the response. “This one I can’t use a spoon,” the warning is appreciated especially when she feels his fingertip brush her chin, “are you ready?” 

Wanda opens her mouth and bites down on a plump, juicy, “Strawberry,” even if it’s impolite to chew and talk, she wants to make sure he knows of her success, “definitely a strawberry.”

“Well done,” the compliment is taken eagerly after her last failure. “You um...well, um, one second.” A cloth is dabbed along the corners of her mouth. “That was a bit messy.”

“A napkin, Vision?” The dabbing stops and she can feel him step back. That action alone should make her mind stop and rethink what her mouth is doing, except her voice has already taken on a little extra suggestibility and she keeps going, “Here I thought I was tempting you to use other means.” It must be Marya coming out or Natasha’s stupid advice to treat this like a date, because if they were on a real date she would have been dead serious. Instead she regrets it, so much, backpedaling as quickly as she can, “Sorry, that um was a really really bad joke.” She wishes she could see him right now, the silence is deafening.”And unnecessary and...”

“I do believe all activities under temptation are on the list of barred actions.” It’s not a severe admonishment, luckily, but it does severely cool the air around them. “Perhaps we’ll just stop there.”

“That’s smart.” Wanda takes off the blindfold and finds him back at the stove, stirring the sauce and whatever ground they had gained in acting natural enough for their pictures is lost and remains gone for the duration of the night. 

  
  
  
  
  


The next day she’s working through their model on her white boards when there’s a hesitant knock. Wanda caps her marker and swivels towards the sound, not surprised to find Vision framed by the doorway. “You can come in.”

“Thank you.” He walks inside, hands clasped tightly around a tupperware container. “Um, Natasha apparently just sent over the pictures and I thought, perhaps if you had time, we investigate the viability of our plan.”

A plan that, once she got home last night, seemed to crumble and be truly and absolutely not the best idea. Something she assumes he agrees with. “Yeah, come on.” 

They sit at her desktop, the container resting in his lap and his chair a little bit farther away than usual. There is an email from Natasha with a link to a folder. Inside are dozens of pictures from the night, some staged but most of them candids. “Oh yikes.” Vision nods along with her assessment of the first pictures. 

“I believe it gets a little better by the second half.”

Wanda clicks through them and right around halfway through they do improve, their smiles in some of the pictures genuine. Without showing any sign of her nerves, she makes sure to rush past the image of her appreciating his ass. And then there is the snuggling picture. From an outsider’s perspective it’s actually kind of adorable. “You are so tall.”

“Alternatively you could be short.” 

Wanda swings her chair to face him, arms crossing and her eyebrows raised, “You really think that’s a stronger alternative hypothesis?”

“Not all alternative hypotheses must be true contenders,” a smirk betrays his seriousness, “but we must, nonetheless, consider them.”

Wanda shakes her head, denying any consideration of that thought, especially when she knows she is at least average height for a woman. “Yeah, you’re just tall.”

The conversation moves on to actual productivity. “What are your thoughts on the path forward for our study?”

It’s a question she mulled over, amongst many other things, last night, her evening fairly sleepless especially with Natasha re-telling her all of the highlights from the evening. Wanda clicks through a few more pictures, weighing how likely it is they can pull it off. Then she gets to a series of images taken after she had the oran— clementine. The last of the series is of the actual shove and a pure, elated look on Vision’s face as he laughs at her. “I think,” she hits the arrow key and watches him feed her a strawberry and then, in the next one, delicately dab her face, the image sweet and contrasting harshly with her mortified memory, “we would be bad empiricists to make a determination after only one trial.”

“I concur.” The scientific side of her isn’t surprised at his agreement, but personally, she assumed he would be ready to throw some of his start-up funds at this by now. “Though I believe we do something far different from that activity.”

Wanda nods, “Yeah, that was...a bit of a shitshow.”

The container in his lap moves to her desk and he slowly opens it, “For that I do apologize. I brought these as an olive branch for putting you through an event that grossly went against our agreed upon parameters.”

“Are those?”

“Yes,” she stares down at a container full of peanut butter frosted brownies, “I had inquired of the main chef in the cafeteria if they would share their recipe.” There is no way he has the chef’s number, she thinks, she’s never even talked to the chef herself, and if he didn’t already have the number then there is no way he could have gotten it last night. The same thought is on his mind, “I had asked last week with the intent of making them in celebration of submitting the IRB. It, however, seemed more pertinent to make them for today as an apology.”

It would be rude to ignore the gesture, especially when the brownie on top has a thick, luscious layer of frosting. “You really didn’t have to…”

“I really did. The evening did not go remotely as expected.”

“It didn’t,” even though she texted him an apology last night, the guilt is still strong,” and I’m really sorry for that—“

”It is fine.” Vision dismisses it again, having told her last night her initial apology was enough. “This is not an easy psychological situation. There will be missteps along the way and as long as we handle them professionally, there will be no need to ruminate.”

”Okay, but it means you can’t apologize again for last night after I eat this brownie.”

A gracious curve forms on his mouth, “Perhaps I should get one more—“

Wanda takes a bite of the brownie in defiance of his attempt and has to hold back her excitement, allowing only an “Ohh,” out as she savors an exact replica of the sacred food, “this is so good.”

Pride emanates from him, “Wonderful. Would you like a picture with it?” She assumes it is a joke, except his face is utterly serious. “I was thinking last night that perhaps we should be taking pictures that might be the equivalent of typical social media posts.”

“Are you also thinking we make fake accounts for these pictures?”

Vision nods, a motion that is less pronounced without his glasses, “It seems if we move forward with this, we should consider the possibility that at least some participants may google the names. Thus, for the sake of ecological validity, we should have some sort of account set up with images.”

This line of thought needs more brownie, another bite of the heaven in her hand helping her work through the logic. “If we did that, we’d also need some people to comment on it.” 

“Yes, like Sam and Natasha.” Their backseat research collaborators would be ideal. 

“Okay.” The affirmation leads to him pulling out his phone. Immediately Wanda moves to pose with the brownie, a string of pictures that include her taking a bite and smiling with it. “Come here.” She pulls his wheely chair closer and leans towards his shoulder, except the image on the screen isn’t quite right. “Do you have your glasses?” 

She watches him respond in the image on the phone, “I did not anticipate needing them at work.” 

“Sounds like poor planning.”

“My apologies,” feigned regret rains down on her, “I will strive to be more dutiful in the future.”

“Good.” Two more bites of brownie and the ease with which they can sit in silence, contemplating their study, confirms this still might work. “What should we do next?”

He stares at the image of him wiping the strawberry juice from her face, eyes growing a little distant in the process. “I believe I will abdicate the decision to you.” 

A plan they already had in mind, that each would choose at least one activity, although she hasn’t thought much about it since she had been waiting to see what he came up with. There are some things she learned she doesn’t want, like an audience, including Sam and Natasha. What she does consider useful from their experience was that at least it was done with good intentions based on something he enjoys (or at least used to). Wanda considers her own hobbies and if there was ever anything she’d want to share with a partner. “Do you like the outdoors?”

Vision’s lips open and then close, head moving a millimeter back and forth, “I do appreciate nature, yes.”

“How about we go for a hike? Just us, no paparazzi.”

More head swaying and contemplation, “I would be amenable to that.” 

It’s one of Wanda’s favorite activities, to get away from the city and everything that exists here and just relish the solitude of the mountains. There’s one particular path she has in mind, “Couple of things. One, it will require about four hours total of driving.”

After last night that could be a deal breaker, but she doesn’t want to stick to the closer trails that get inundated with city people wanting a breath of fresh air. “As long you drive, I do not mind.”

“I will.” She was going to insist anyway, never one to enjoy being the passenger. “Two, can you swim?”

Visions stares at her as if she has sprouted wings, “I, um, yes, quite well, actually.”

That solidifies it, a small portion of the hike requiring water travel but that is precisely the reason the trail tends to be devoid of all casual day hikers. “Great, let’s plan for Saturday?” 

“Saturday it is.” Vision stands, wheeling his chair back to its home at one of the tables. He starts to leave and then rethinks his decision, “The question last night, about pet names,” their eye contact is broken as he inspects his hands, “it was about romantic pet names wasn’t it?”

Wanda nods, a slight grimace on her face at the embarrassment in his responding frown, “I thought your answer was cute, so I just let it go.” 

“Thank you,” genuineness imbues each syllable and makes her even happier she erred on the side of empathy. “For the record, I am not particularly fond of them unless they are derivative of the person’s name or a compliment of a defining feature.” 

A statement she wholly agrees with, “Good to know, Ole Blue Eyes.” 

His lips form a tight line as he takes in the moniker, “Enjoy your brownies,” he pauses and there’s an impishness in his gaze she’s not sure she’s ever seen, “Carrot top.” 

“Don’t you dare...” he’s exiting the room too quickly for her disapproval to latch onto him, but not too quickly for her to miss the view as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EPR Paradox: a thought experiment by Einstein, Podolsky, and Rosen to show quantum physicists (like Niles Bohr) that quantum physics was not a complete theory.
> 
> To any physics people, I’m sorry if I’ve butchered any of your field. Every physics book and article I’ve read just makes me more unsure of how to write about it. 
> 
> In case you were wondering, this is based on what appears to be a real (highly rated) cooking class. There were a lot of pictures on yelp and descriptions of what happens. It’s not the only one out there either. Diving into the rabbit hole of research on seductive cooking classes definitely informed me that I will never want to attend it. I am too easily embarrased.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. More than that, I hope you are staying safe, healthy, and secure right now.


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